Sometimes I read things I've written, and they make me cry. I'm always astounded when I create something I think is beautiful. This might sound like some twisted sort of vanity, but its not meant to; once I write something down, I don't feel like it is me anymore. It is it. It is beautiful for its own reasons.

I like stories.

Dreamy-eyed and far-away, you're not here. You're in her arms, as you recount a perfect moment of love beneath stars. I've never seen you this honest before. I'm lucky to be here, to be listening.

I will keep your story wrapped up in my silver box, for it has amazed me.

Capture my attention and tell me what your Grandmother's house smelled like at Christmas.
Tell me about grass stains.
Rug burns.
Cranberry wine.
I will tell you of peonies and dirt.
Christina Rosetti set to music.
The moon of the plains.
The stupid things we never write down, and never tell anyone, but will never cease to make us smile.

Please tell me a story.

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