We are who we are behind closed doors...
Pages upon pages never written.
These painted hearts of ours like millions of miles.
Charles slinks down the hall as silently and lightly as he can feeling like an intruder in his own home.
His bare feet brush antique wood and his mind strains to hear what his ears cannot.
Feeling, searching, reaching out.
All voices are quiet except for one.
We turn ( Read more... )
These painted hearts of ours like millions of miles.
Charles slinks down the hall as silently and lightly as he can feeling like an intruder in his own home.
His bare feet brush antique wood and his mind strains to hear what his ears cannot.
Feeling, searching, reaching out.
All voices are quiet except for one.
We turn ( Read more... )
:)
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