That icy glass reduces your beauty - dims your fire - let me be your mirror...

Sunday evenings are heavier than clouds with rain, darker too and often interminable.

It must be hard when you are a beautiful woman and no one will look at your soul.

Freshly cut Christmas trees smelling of stars and snow and pine resin - inhale deeply and fill your soul with wintry night.

You think so logically... like a hawk soaring - I feel so chaotically... like a kite without a tail plummeting to earth.

Some people won't even own a dog for fear it will die - you can't bubble-wrap your heart.

When I think of you it's with tears, because no one else has such delicate hands that can reach into my soul and calm my fears.