Log in

No account? Create an account
Previous Entry Share Next Entry
Singing Agathe
Love is giving him water, milliliter by milliliter, through a needle-less syringe.

Grief is ball of tar, sitting in the chest, waiting to unravel.

Hope is waiting for that miraculous recovery, that day when I come home and trots to the door to greet me once again.

I can't breathe.