Loving is Leaving and Coming Back Around Again

I've never been in love. Not like how the poets scribble, the musicians sing, we storytellers write bestselling novels about. Infatuated, yes; blind, justice; obsessed, hungry. I thought I loved my birthplace. Rose coloured glasses and all that. I left like a thief in the night, Only it was day (that much I recall) - … Continue reading Loving is Leaving and Coming Back Around Again