You said once
I'm like the song
A piece of glass, left there on the beach
Will always have a gypsy heart
Prefer to search,
Not to find
The one I will love won't bleed
I am so sorry for your wound
You never had my heart.
The Love of My Life
He understands I only ever wanted one thing.
July 12th
My mother spoke of the origin of my name: "The first ray of the sun's light." And a lifelong chase ensued; always the subtle glow in the distance. . . warmth of a Vermeer hearth, painted in tender brushstrokes, whispering promises of a future when all will be drenched in a lightness of being Milan Kundera knows all too well. Said simply, in the right light, at the right time, everything will be extraordinary. -Anisha
Cancer Moon Child
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