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- Poetry > All Poetry
What happens to an artist without paint? Is it like a bird without a wing? stuck on the ground, unable to do a thing? Perhaps like a donkey with a too-heavy load, toiling, loaded down, about to explode. Maybe like a traveler, without his map, who is going in circles, and can't find ... - Fiction > All FictionI'm sitting here, watching him whisper to another girl. That used to be me. It used to be me that he would sit that close to all hour. It used to be me who got to feel how perfect is heartbeat felt on top of mine when we hugged. He would put his face so close to mine, so close that I was afraid...
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