Coco J. Ginger

I want your most vital organ. I want it to be mine.

I miss your silent stature, your avoided days of disaster, your present state of distress.I__ cinnamon, cloves and fire, you are the rested cedarwood of desire.

I remember when your name was just another name that rolled without thought off my tongue.Now, I can__ look at your name without an abundance of sentiment attached to each lettter.Your name, which I played with so carelessly, so easily, has somehow become sacred to my lips.A name I won__ throw around lightheartedly or repeat without deep thought.And if ever I speak of you, I use the English language to describe who you were to me. You are nameless, because those letters grouped together in that familiar form_.. carries too much meaning for my capricious heart.

But every spiteful word she ever wrote him was effortless love clenched in her fists. Her heart screaming for stability in this fiery game of desire.

Color me....BRILLIANT.

When we are in love, we are convinced nobody else will do. But as time goes, others do do, and often do do, much much better.

Growth in love comes from a place of absence, where the imagination is left to it__ own devices and creates you to be much more then reality would ever allow.

He brought out the worst in me, and was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Her heart had grown so familiar to the pain of life without him, that to respond now seemed too large a pleasure she could not endure. If pain was love, then she loved fiercely. Yet knew she could not be near that boy again.

I wore your promise on my finger for one yearI'll wear your name on my heart til I dieBecause you were my boy, you were my only boy forever.

You break me the hardest, make me the strongest, and keep me the softest.

I want your hand without the skin. Bone to bone without the molds. Mouth to mouth, without the porn.

Writers do not have the privilege of sleep. There is always a story coming alive in their heads, constantly composing. Whether they choose it or not.

It's all mine, it's all sacred.

Maybe she had it wrong all this time and her empty heart could never be filled by his ingenious broken spirit. Maybe this yearning had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with her.

Now he was nothing to her, just a lesson in time, a wicked boy-man, incapable of wealth or prestige.

She wanted to write to him. Tell him she was glad he was back, that he was alive, that he was home and safe. But words to him no longer fit right in her her mouth.Words which belonged in his ownership were no longer hers to give. Silence was the only acceptable state her heart would grant. He would never know what he missed, because she refused to be heard in his presence. All the words he could have had, all the phrases he might have danced with. The smiles which would have been imprinted upon his heart, would never be. And his lips would never be able to reply to the words she could not say.

She had missed him so long now, that the feeling had become a part of her. As each day passed, the missing distanced itself from her heart. One day she woke, and realized the missing was there but the pain was gone. Missing without pain is tolerable. Pain linked to heartache is intolerable.