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It’s the start of a great summer.
“Those boys, pretty as they are, I think might have the devil inside them.”
I fall asleep and dream vividly of hazel eyes, upturned lips, of blurring trees, and endless roads.
He turns back to me. “I say, it’s the land of the mentally inept, electronically dependent, and brainwashed media slaves.”
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It’s a dream, a living dream, this gorgeous man with sun-drenched skin and luminous eyes, reaching for me, along with the scene surrounding us.
And race to his car as it starts to rain.
My heart is no longer hiding in the shadows, it’s dancing in the open now, much like we were in the bar last night.
When a man confesses his love to me, I expect him to mean it. I don’t want to question the words’ authenticity. I want to be claimed and owned and ruled and possessed by love.
“If you’re ever wondering what to do, that’s what you do. Whatever you fucking want, whenever you want, and you don’t apologize for it, not ever.”
And what better way to pass a day in stormy weather than curling up with a gorgeous man and getting lost in the words.
But in a lot of aspects, they’re night and day, dark cloud and golden sun. And drawing the comparison between them has become inevitable.
But that’s the thing about ravens. They always seem to be watching. Now, I’m counting on it.

