Vidal's Verse

I am still haunted by memories and feelings that should have long ago passed. The problematic curse of an almost perfect memory. Do I remember the days perfectly or do I remember her as being perfect?

These are just stories told poetically. This is a place for my words to live. Some lead good lives and others not so much. I would call these Poetic Stories. 

Early Mourning

Night is nothing until it flows into morning, and with you the morning flows into mourning. When the beauty of your conversing ends, it casts the darkest shadow even though the suns light begins, the darkness for me is just now setting in. I can only hope its my voice that echoes in your dreams and pages of my words flipping through your head like that of a poorly written novel. To me its poor because nothing I can give is good enough for you to receive, but to you I hope its great, like the lakes of Michigan, and just like the water in those lakes my love will flow, never ending into your heart.

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