she's electric. when she touches me. she sends shivers down my. spine. she moves me. in ways i never knew. when she touches me. i'm alive.
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i mourn each passing breath because i know each one brings me closer to the day that i have to live a life without you
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Tell me a story. A story about you. If you do, I'll tell you a story about me, too. I've got some good ones, you know. Stories about how good it is to be alive. Stories about how hard it is to live without someone. I've got stories about being a kid wishing I was older and stories about being older acting like I was a kid again. You name it, I've got it. The thing is, the story that has shaped me the most. The story that has made me who I am. I just can't tell you that one. Not yet. It'll come, though. I promise you that. Tonight, I will tell you any story but that one.
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I have three blank canvases sitting on my living room floor. I bought them a little while ago with the silly pipe-dream of dipping a brush in to some paint and turning all that white into a piece of art. Abstract, of course. I didn't delude myself into thinking I had real talent. I just wanted to create something that would be my own. Instead, those three canvases lay bare on my living room floor still covered in plastic. The paint still sits. Unused. The brushes are clean. Time and time again I've picked up the brushes and painted imaginary brush strokes on that canvas, picturing a finished work of art. Right now I'm seriously considering hanging the pieces as they are. Completely blank.
