The weather has turned cooler and gray hangs over us, dome shaped. I sing as I pack my bags to get out of town. Riders on the Storm. Jim Morrison is my newest obsession because of his poetry. And his face. God that fucking perfect beautiful tragic tortured face.
I am troubled / Immeasurably / By your eyes, he writes in The American Night.
Couldn’t you just die.
I need the ocean. I need it all over me and crashing on the sand. My love gets out of bed and walks past me naked, sandy blond bed head hair in every direction. Black coffee and warm kisses. That crumpled space between sleeping and wake.
It’s just us and it’s quiet as a faded linen afternoon. I sip my coffee and watch out the window as the sun begins to break through the mist which whispers along the trees.
View original post 129 more words