The Poetic Writer

Come Home to Me. I have taken down the bleeding crimson curtains in the windows by the hall in favor of colors more reminiscent of the icy winters you're used to, and more resembling the baby blue tulips I have just placed in the box on the ledge of your window. Your room still overlooks the hills, rolling green interrupted only by brush strokes of yellow and indigo weeds. I take it back. They are not all undesirable. I used to know you by a different name. A name with softer consonants and...