He is my thunderstorm, the lighting coursing through my veins. I am his hurricane, his colorful bow of rain.

She adored fairy tales,yet derived great rewardrewriting them to the melody of her own warrior soul.Her fairytales weren’t made of desperate girlsbeing rescued by handsomespoiled princes.Her stories were made of badass womenteasing monstersand running wild with dragons.

Your love was a vine - enchanting and beautiful, crawling around my heart and up my throat; then it strangled me. Your love, hauntingly tragic.

Occasionally you can hear her howl, when the sky is black and the moon is full.

Sometimes I find myself in the eye of my own hurricane.… He was trouble in my life interrupting my world crashing into my dreams but I was a fucking storm the lightening to his thunder so, what more could a little chaos add but a beautiful catastrophic eruption.

Put the two of us together and we become like moonlight and fireflies... all burning and glowing and lighting up the night.

Fireflies, to me, are nighttime butterflies, Dazzling the night with magical flashes of light. When I see these teeny tiny sparks dart in the night, I am overcome with a sense of comfort and calm, Same as when a butterfly flutters around me during the day. I’m drawn to the dance of both astonishing critters. They remind me of life. They remind me of hope.