I write. Not all that well. Mostly fiction. And mostly romance infused with a bit of wit, or so I like to think.
She smiled; he loved it when she did, because her entire face just lit up when her lips broke into a curve.
Someday she would get things right, she told herself.
It really didn't seem like it was going to be today. Or was it?
And if I listen to, the sound of white,
Sometimes I hear your smile, and breathe your light.
He saw the way her bangs fell over her eye, and he ached to brush it away for her, to lightly run his knuckles over the smooth flesh of her cheek. And then to watch her smile in return, up at him. He couldn’t. She wouldn’t want him to. It hurt. Like hell.
