stand my face or any other part of me if he had knowledge of it. He is stark and chiseled out of marble stone, Scandinavian and strong but I love him and so I say it. Maybe wishing a little bit of him was different and he would listen to my heart instead of claiming his honor for me. Is it real I ask myself does he have what I ache for inside or does it ripen slowly with time I can't figure it out. Before I wooed him I was crying over a sad brown eyed boy who pretended he didn't want me. How I make it out of bed anymore I can't tell you, fighting my in the brash deep waters of my head weather I want pureness or recklessness with no regret. I talked to the bluebird darling about moving to Paris with her and devoting my soul and my psychical being to art and nothing else. But the roman talks of a farm in the north with his papa and me coming along to maybe grow strawberries and produce fresh tea in mason jars with wild hand grown herbs. I still feel my admiration for him but its only been a month and I crave more passion or so and so. I'm always torn, I have many souls resting turning dreaming over and over in the sleeps of dawn and so forth. I hope, I pray to the sun that I wont unexpectedly and inexplicably get torn in half heart wrenching on the floor, drowning in salt water.