"Literature is a history of thought intimidating to add to," I affirm with slanted eyes and an angry grip of my pen.
Samantha fingers my clavicle with her wedding finger, more of a scratch really...and get your mind out of the gutter.
She is "three sheets to the wind" and I'm strung up pretty tall in her hair, easily always calmly in love with her - braiding her hair, writing embarrassing poetry, drinking bourbon or scotch, studying her neck line.
I've been trying to write all night, mainly grasping lush images from her mistakes.
Some words were inked down when she spilt bourbon on the new comforter I just bought - I laughed that off though.