A clock is a pie, and my piece is between 1 and 12. It’s always time to love—especially if it’s filled with cinnamon apples.

I love you,” I murmured against his lips.I moved away from him. I forced myself to stand, Igrabbed my guitar case and I left.On the bus, I kept licking my lips; I tasted him, the...

Ho provato molto seriamente a non pensare a lui. Ho sepolto il suo ricordo sotto i baci, le carezze e le voci di altri ragazzi ma ora tutto ciò che sento, provo e avverto sulla...

I miss your silent stature, your avoided days of disaster, your present state of distress.I’m cinnamon, cloves and fire, you are the rested cedarwood of desire.