All stories are true.
Metal rusts, music lasts forever.
I only know one story. But oftentimes small pieces seem to be stories themselves.
I spoke it soft, but close enough to brush against her lips. I spoke it quiet, but near enough so that the sound of it went twining through her hair. I spoke it hard and firm and dark and sweet.
I learned to love the feel of good words.
If you can find someone like that, someone who you can hold and close your eyes to the world with, then you're lucky.