I read a lot of books about love.
I truly believe that most of them aren’t myths or fairytales.
I believe that these stories about love, are stories that people are afraid or too selfish to share…
So they would rather cover it up with some poorly written childhood fairy tale.
I want what they are getting too.
I am not ashamed of confessing that I have fallen helplessly in love with a well written, broken man that lives between of a 1654 pages, than I have with men that have been helping me write my very own story.
There is are particles of sand that he has stood on.
And there are gusts of winds that slap a smile on my face, because they too have been in his presence.
Reminding me that he is the reason, I am now, a storm with skin on.