Cada vez mais penso que o defeito é meu... Duas vezes o mesmo defeito, só pode, não é?...
Podemos dizer que o que nasce torto, tarde ou nunca se endireita...
Podemos dizer que o que nasce torto, tarde ou nunca se endireita...
Onde o mistério se passa...
Her.
The smell of her hair, the taste of her skin.
Those eyes. The doorways to her soul.
They would melt me, persuade me, bury me and consume me.
Her chiselled features radiating perfection.
The beauty in her body, like her beloved sea had carved her from stone.
The warmth of her breath still playing across my cheek and her blazing fire creating my safety.
Slender and elegant fingers accentuating her gestures, the soft jingle of her bangles somehow tuneful.
Her olive skin, soft and radiant, complementing her sleek black hair.
My Juliet.
My Aphrodite.
She is mine and I am hers.