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Goodbye to Sandra DeeBiting her lip, she stepped away from the car. Without turning back to say one final goodbye she walked back to her dorm.
It ran through her head like an action replay of any sports event.
Asking her to go to dinner with him obviously wasnt as innocent as it seemed, although she thought it way out of proportion.
She was not used to being asked out on a date, or being pursued by someone she didnt know personally.
Ill miss you. He was serious when he said it and it scared her.
She wasnt sure what to do. He wasnt rushing into things. He really liked her. She didnt want to crush his heart because she liked him too, though she wanted to know more about him other than hes a sweetheart and funny.
Still replaying the scene over and over in her head she started biting her lip again: He leaned over and kissed her cautiously on the lips. She kissed him back, thinking that no harm could be done of it.
I do not have sexual tens
Facebook Stalker ver2I'm not your typical stalker
Do I look like a stalker to you?
I'm not even sketchy looking!
My hair is straight
I wear decent clothes
And I am not a creep.
I don't hide in bushes
Or look through windows
And watch you walk to class
Noticing how you carry your backpack on one shoulder
Cigarette in one hand
Coffee or cell phone in the other
Walking slow enough as if your mind if wandering
I wonder what you're thinking about
Are you thinking about me?
Your boyfriend or girlfriend
Or about your classes
But I would never notice that
I am not a stalker
I am what you call crafty
I find out what you're doing through my friends
Or read your feed on Facebook
But who doesn't do that
It is fair game after all
Plus if you don't want someone to know what you're doing don't publish it in your feed
I'm only curious and I want to be your friend
In order to do so I must find out what you like, what you do for fun
Conversation starter you see
You like [The Black-Eyed Peas]
Yeah, me too
My favorite s
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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