This shit is romantic.
Friday nights. Our evening to sway to the old melodies and fast jazz from the bygone days we wish we were a part of.
Me with my wine.
You so unintentionally cool in your spectacled cigarette state.
Who could imagine that sometimes its hard to love you? Sometimes its hard to love me.
After all this time some light is bound to shine in those cracks. Our glorious complimentary cracks.
Our polarity so magnetic. I am yours and you are mine.
Rose at Library Park 