Sometimes, something just feels right.
It feels sound. It's suiting. It's bona fide.
That was one of those times.
Could a hug ever feel so precise?
I am a puzzle piece, long forgotten, finally finding it's place.
So unexpected.
An impulsive gesture that turned into chemistry.
An accidental euphoria.
Hofman is put to shame.
I should right a play.
Shakespeare couldn't write one any better.
I shall right a novel.
Bronte would never compair.
I'll create a new genre.
None of the ones in exsistance will suffice.
Perhaps I am too ardent.
All I know is the moment you vanish from view;
I begin to miss you.
What is that called?
There must be a word for it.
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