My pulse, my vagrant selves, my poetry. You with your magic alleys filled with genie lamps and flying carpets. Skinny legs, wide hips.

I guess, just like the cure to stop singing the annoying and crappy Last Song, which is to listen to another song, I need to displace you with someone new. A Different Kind of Special.

Your words always had a way of baffling me. And even though your face is fading away from my memory with every passing moment, your words,. Still echo through me clearly and sharply. Time is indeed a thief, it is a.

Musings of a young female writer. The Who and the Whys. My shirt from yesterday- It smells like you. I keep sniffing it like a fool. These reasons and seasons Changing so swift. Your words too sharp striking, Piercing through toughest shields. Today I slept with the same shirt next to me While listening to Indie songs.