They All Laugh. We All Laugh. And

This Concept Could Easily Have Gone Awry. Stories About Love Tend To Go That Way Sometimes. They Wander Into The Realm Of Cheese And Never Return, Which I Think Is A Shame, Because There Is A Way To Write About Romantic Love Without Breaking Out The Velveeta.

His Eyes Search The Crowd Until They Find My Face. My Heartbeat Lives In My Throat; Lives In My Cheeks. "i Still Don't Understand," He Says Softly, "how She Knew That It Would Work.

You Think My First Instinct Is To Protect You. Because You're Small, Or A Girl, Or A Stiff. But You're Wrong." He Leans His Face Close To Mine And Wraps His Fingers Around My Chin. His Hand Smells Like Metal. When Was The Last Time He Held A Gun, Or A Knife? My Skin Tingles At The Point Of Contact, Like He's Transmitting Electricity Through His Skin. "my First Instinct Is To Push You Until You Break, Just To See How Hard I Have To Press." He Says, His Fingers Squeezing At The Word Break. My Body Tenses At The Edge In His Voice, So I Am Coiled As Tight As A Spring, And I Forget To Breathe.

Everything Inside Me Screams For Just One More Kiss, One More Word, One More Glance, One More.

The Cruelty Of Fate Is That I Must Travel With The People I Hate When The People I Love Are Dead Behind Me.