Your love like the morning

Your love like the morning

Your love surrounds me

like the morning mist.

As I breathe,

your sweet breath

fills me.

As I exhale,

your healing scent,

refreshes my soul.

The morning breeze

of your love,

cools my heart.

My soul tingles

with your love’s

soothing touch.

I tremble as your

fingers trace the outline

of my lips.

With joy I shake

as you caress

my face.

I writhe in ecstasy,

as you move your hands

on my skin.

I reach for your form,

you escape my grasp.

A specter,

formed and formless,

unreachable.

Only in my dreams,

do I touch you,

embrace you,

an apparition,

haunting

during

long,

waking,

hours.

A Long

❤ ❤ ❤

Image: By pfly (Mist on the Skagit River) CC-BY-SA-2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

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Stephen King’s “What Writing Is”

On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft “What Writing Is” I have written an article in another Blog summarizing several sections in Stephen King's book. This article is about another section of his intriguing book. Stephen King’s “What Writing Is” 4. What Writing Is —pp.103-107 Stephen King suggests: “Telepathy, of course.” Writing is telepathy. Telepathy is defined as “the transmission of information from one person to another without using any of our known sensory channels or physical interaction.” In modern fiction and science fiction, many superheroes and super-villains are endowed with telepathic abilities. The term was coined in 1882 by the classical scholar Frederic W. H. Myers, a founder of the Society for Psychical Research, and has remained more popular than the earlier expression thought-transference. (Wikipedia) Writing about telepathy, King suggests that we are “downstream on the time-line”. We are in the here-and-now and as he writes from the past, he

old friends

old friends searched online for former friends surprised to see untimely ends friends, their spouses, moms and dads sad to see the deaths they had the inexorable tick and tock of time, leads us all to fields, sublime through twisting, turning hands of fate, soon we'll all be known as "late" years roll on, time is passed no one knows how long it lasts each life is counted out by days as friends we oft go separate ways friend's faces show the lines of age as each one turns his separate page fools fleeting time waits for no man eighty years our lives may span so count your days with special care for who knows how, who knows where our beating hearts will one day stop find old friends before they drop © 2014 ajwrites57 A Long ❤ ❤ ❤ Image adapted: By SDRandCo via morguefile.com

Five of My Top Ten Greatest Novels

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