

The Rose LiesThe Rose Lies
The rose lies demurely, cast in the soft shadows of afternoon.
It does not move in the traditional way, preferring to glide from one direction to the next with each gentle breeze, but that does not diminish or draw attention away from the soft petals that rest so comfortably on their mother bud. Pert, soft, voluptuous, they are proud daughters, sleek with the approaching evenings dew. Through their pride, they have bitten through the gentle flesh of lovers and neigh sayers alike, but as one, they turn when she approaches; their sister siblings will not pierce her skin.
The petals say to their mother, &


The Roof. The Walls.The Roof. The Walls.
The roof. The walls. Your marble floors.
I painted your windows red.
But when I struck my match to your red, red house, You painted it instead.


Do You Believe?Do You Believe?
Do you believe in magic? She asked, twirling her rainbow umbrella into the sunlight.
He replied lazily, voice lost in something other than the day. No, but I believe in you. Thats just as good. The umbrella stopped spinning. You shouldnt say stuff like that. Its rude. He sat up from the grass, clothes damp with suicidal grass, hair tousled, cheeks flushed. The truth?
She twirls her umbrella to cover her blushing face; he can only see the twirling umbrella, and solitary stocking-clad girlish legs; she hides behind rainbows and sunlight and lacy