The Beach House April 16, 2015April 21, 2015 Soft whispers linger, on his frozen lips. White line of sand smells sweet. His weapons lie across the floor, disarmed, still deadly. Silently he beckons on. Smooth skin, rough cloth cut short. I thought I’d learned his inner soul. But now I think, I’ll never know. Share this:TwitterFacebookLike this:Like Loading... Related
