Excerpt No. 1 From a Book I’ll Never Write

It was odd. It had always been Julian who did art, whether it would be writing poetry or painting or making songs. Darcy didn’t even do anything—she wasn’t the type to write poems at midnight, or an hour before the sun sets when the sky changes into different shades and hues until it settles with …

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Ink Stains

I told myself that I would never write about you again—that the tip of my pen will stop forming the words of your being. I told myself that I will not waste my metaphors on you even though you pass by my mind at times. But here I am, writing about you after two years …

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