The Crimson Feather Pen

Sometimes I catch myself indulging in something that tickles faded memories in the back of my mind. 

I read a story... that my husband wrote... just for me. The words sprung from the page like a loaded bullet train colliding with my breath.

After the reading, came the recalling. He was a child and I was a child in the memories of Fort Lee...that's where we met; in the high school cafeteria. I liked his shirt and asked if I could borrow it, to which he replied, "I like your dress, can I borrow it?" Best friends over night.

The older I got, the more I realized just how much he was my role model; kind, generous, loyal, gentleman. 

He writes stories for me with carnal pens that make my mad blood boil. They remind me in every twist and corner how much I love being his everything; his l.i.r.