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About Deviant Member sharonFemale/United States Recent Activity
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Talk about forever like it's possible,
a real story made rare by cliches
and last Saturday night wine.
Boy, you speak of holy things
that I haven't been in touch with
since the ripe age of seventeen.
Back in those seahorse-searching days,
I was just a wavy-haired youth
in love with archery and not much else;
the stallion I considered my
second best friend only because
he refused to be tamed by anyone but me.
And so we were like-minds, both
strangers to casual normalcy.
I rode Bucephalus every afternoon
just before sunset, through
the wild plains surrounding
our Greek village homes.

Friend, I saw less of you as we grew older..
I needed time to think and
you kept yourself busy too;
studying Greek philosophy, Trojan Wars and
candy mythology; stuff about
sirens and blind, lying kings.
You were good at holding back your anger,
boy; not like me..
In a fight, you knew the right
time to strike,
to hang low, be careful.
My mother loved you because
you seldom got hurt.
My father, on the other hand,
despised your blue eyes, your
carefree laughter.
He thought you would "change" me
for the worst, not the better;
whatever he had in mind.

But I never listened..
You made me feel alive;
cupped your hands over my eyes,
said, "Trust me, if you dare.
Take two steps.."
And when I did,
you didn't let me trip,
clamber over the edge
of the cliff bordering
our magpie Persian sea.
Boy, you saved me from
my own arrogance, false judgment,
thinking I could
fly with paper wings.

And although I find it hard
to believe in saints
when we're going out into the desert;
losing battles every day,
I remember you told me
there's no such thing as an ideal mind,
a normal heart, boy.
We're just made of sand, copper, ocean
pearls that have almost
gone missing in the tides.
But your Neptune eyes
pull me out of nightmares.
When I roll over, picturing
my half-brother holding
a knife; a jealous red-skin
blade to my throat,
you shake my shoulder.
You whisper Aristotle's words
in my ear, making me remember
our Sunday school tutor; how
he taught us to control our
scariest emotions,
our prison cell fears.

And you say, "It's just
a swampland dream, friend.
Your unforgiving mind
plays tricks on you,
but don't give in..
Look at me, instead."
Oh and that's easy
to do because, boy,
at midnight; you are
the true son of Zeus.
By candlelight, nobody
can tell the difference,
pick out our secret
identities like poison grapes.

Bitter and sick like seaweed,
I get drunk and you hold me steady.
You don't let me fall apart
just because I can't impress
everyone I meet, with my brains,
my father's dying name.
Oh I'm used to not feeling good enough.
That's why I push myself too hard
but you still never let me win.

And I thank you for that
but I also can't stand you for it;
your blatant honesty.
It kills me, knowing
that I want you so bad..
I'm a prince but
you're the only treasure
that I can never possess.
We can never be like
Apollo and Hyacinth.

And maybe it's for the best,
bittersweet love potions
turning rancid on my lips
when we kiss; forbidden
gardens rotting under our feet.
I don't want there to
ever be any blood on my hands
because I lost you, carelessly.
No, I don't want to
be that idiot, the one letting
his ego run wild
like a mustang
tearing through the aspen woods.

No, I don't listen to anyone
but you, dear friend.
You're the only honest thing
in my world because
even my own parents
gave up hoping I'd be the king
they always wanted;
a puppet on the throne.
When I was a kid,
I would throw tantrums
but you were the only
one who wasn't scared away.

"And maybe that's a good thing,"
you say. "That you became
a ruler, without your
parents' glassy approval."
Oh yes, but I always
wished I could be more like you;
a stable boy, turned hero.

Angel, warrior; your blue-green
eyes pierce the clouds above,
lightning streaks falling
over the burial place of
last September monarch butterflies.
Creature; beautiful darkness, you
leave me broken in the forest like
a prince made out of
winter bones, stolen
from the tiny hands
of fairies and nymphs.
Demon, lover of men;
without you here,
I don't know who I am
anymore, gentle friend.
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: sexual themes and strong language)
Oh if this is a test; I swear, my sweet
sick darling, I'll throw the game,
toss your glass menagerie heart
in the air and watch it break.
I'll do all this cruelty just to lose,
just to make you sin, feel just
as bad as I do; thirsting for
poison berry wine, wanting
lust to eat whatever's left
of an English spring in
our rattlesnake throats.

Oh I'm dark, you know.
I'm sick but it's your fault, sweetheart.
Oh yes, all this blame
falls on you like bucketfuls of satin
chills; Maine sea-glass
rain, silver, a slow death; painful
and hated on our flesh
like the gentle demise
of werewolves, romanticized in
teen fiction, in Eastern-European
superstition and church tales.

Oh the priests keep us out
of catholic cemetery gates.
But we don't give a damn, that's a fact.
We were born to fall on our knees and
give each other head.
Oh darling, i remember
there was a time when
you were okay with that, as well..
And we were meant
to hold hands as indiscreetly as
any other romantic couple can,
walking down garden paths;
admiring the bees, their
endless pursuit of nectar
on honeysuckle petals.

And there was a time when
you were okay with almost
everything I did; how I would
run my fingers through your
wet hair after a shower and
trace the Aztec patterns
along the haunting
muscles of your chest.
Then I would lean over,
you'd say, "Come closer",
and my tongue would lick
your every vein; waterlogged
with poetry, Japanese
inscriptions, fairy haiku.

Oh why is it like this now, friend?
So empty, our encounters like
a Ming Dynasty vase;
porcelain-made, blue-inspired
with flowers painted
on for good luck, serenity.
It's a hoax, you know, this
idea that we can make love last
if we only count our mistakes
the second time around?

Oh it's gone down the drain;
the promise of forever, but
it's my own fault for being
naive enough to believe
in such a childish myth.
A one-night stand that
lasted three years;
we were friends,
and then more, and then
something in  between.
Blue-eyed, dark-haired;
I used to look at you and think,
"He's the Disney prince
that never gets written about
because he's too controversial,
his insane dreams painted
on his fairy tale peach skin;
tattoos he got in high school,
a raven, a zodiac sign and
Mandarin ancient symbols.
Nobody can read him like
a storybook, marked at page 7
with a peacock feather.."
Your Majesty, you burn July
with a lighter, cigarette.
You smile as October
invades your lungs,
making you cough up notes of
clove, brown sugar in the air.

Oh tell me why you stayed
by my side for so long;
led me on some wild goose-chase
when you could have
easily backed out for both our sake.
We were fools, I know..
But you could have saved us from
all the drama of hiding it, friend,
because you were seeking
someone unattainable, as well.
You were hoping to make him
care for you in that way; that
special just-turned-sixteen,
ready to give myself up to
a Romeo-meets-Romeo type of story-line.
You could have saved us both the trouble
of silent Wednesdays;
awkward pauses on the phone, moments
like watered-down whisky,
stale and lacking the real thrill.

Oh what are we now;
ghosts in yearbook pictures,
notebook lines, dotted-out love poems?
"Something borrowed, something blue";
that's what you said when you placed
a good luck charm in
the palm of my hand;
a bracelet made out of sea-glass.
Yet, now you can take it back,
or else I'll burn it, I swear.
I'll toss it in the pile of
ashes of last weekend;
salamander crucifixes.
Oh hail, King David!
But it's over now..

Shun the body for making me weak;
my lust, a heartbeat,
a summer gone stale.
Our friendship was
marred by lipstick stains.
You were in love
with someone else..
I was just a stand-in;
a series of gingerbread mistakes.
You were never my Valentine, boy.
You were a fucking
wish that never did come true.
A total Peter Pan fail; I never
found the so-called
Neverland that other folks
claimed to see in
your peacock feather orbs.

A desert island;
boy, you would have been
the perfect escape for me,
and I guess you were,
for a moment of weakness.
But I never expected
to fall so hard; face-first
on gravel, the magic, gone.

Oh you never were my fucking
Valentine; a candy heart,
melting on my tongue.
But for awhile, I enjoyed
the bittersweet nostalgia
of Oregon summers.
Fucking Valentine
long due but this naughty piece is inspired by:<da:thumb id="354091802">
A champagne-whisky dawn clouds my vision
as I drive out of The Windy City at 5 a.m;
Chicago painted a glitter fog on my rear-view mirror,
glistening like diamonds on Daisy's headband in The Great Gatsby.
I'm thinking about you as I leave my college dorm,
the cafes and bars, bookstores lining the familiar streets of
the town I've been living in for two years now;
but the truth is, darling, you're still in my castaway thoughts.

Forty miles; skyscrapers blinking in the distance,
your name on the horizon among the violet
serendipity clouds, making me think of
Ferris wheel rides at October Fest and
cotton candy-smeared lips, those
forbidden weekends when all our
friends were out on dates with girls
and we were the only freaks;
left-out, made to wait at bus stations,
sharing a cigarette back and forth.
But deep down, we didn't care..
You were my best friend
so it didn't matter that
I wasn't as athletic as the jocks,
trolling around the football field
at school or as smart
as the cocky student
council president;
it didn't even matter that
I wasn't all that handsome
or spectacular,
my grey-green eyes dull
like sea-glass,
abandoned on some New England shore.
It didn't matter to me
because you were the one, all along.

Fifteen miles outside of Utah,
I'm thinking about coming home to you
and it's such a crazy idea!
Where are you now?
Last time I checked,
you had moved in with your dad and
decided to study journalism at some
junior college nearby.
Last time I checked,
you had given up just a little bit;
had started drinking
to forget your mother's sudden
death in glassy-eyed April.

I sent you letters, left you emails
and unanswered phone messages.
But you made it clear that
you couldn't bring yourself
to patch up our friendship, talk to me then.
And even though, I understand,
I really want you to know that
in my thundercloud mind, you're unforgettable.
I could never let you down like that;
make you believe in half moonbeams,
stolen charm bracelets
abandoned on asphalt;
gravel-tops hiding glass beads,
all the Simon Says
games, secret promises we made
under bad fortuneteller stars;
constellations blurred by
whisky eyes and
numb sour-patch tongues.

And once I enter our old country haven,
I go to the Shoshone cemetery
and lay white flowers on
your mother's grave.
I guess I owe her because
she was the only one in that tiny
storybook hamlet of
Cascade in star-garnet Idaho
who accepted our
strange friendship,
our weird romance
in shades of bluebird and
silvery lark.
Boy, you know it's true..

Oh your mom; she never complained
when we stayed up half the night
out on the back porch of your house,
strumming on your older brother's guitar
and making up lyrics to silly love songs.
She didn't get irritated like my mom,
always turning off the lights before
9 o'clock, sending you home on your bike.

Hey, do you ever miss
those radio broadcasts?
Remember how we listened to
Fiona Apple's "Criminal" on
our first secret date?
We were parked out by
the abandoned movie theater
and your fingers were
drawing lazy circles
on the nape of my neck.
You were my lost-and-found
summer; baseball caps,
root beer floats, whipped cream
and a new excitement,
turning my stomach at the sight
of your wonder-kid grin.

Innocence gone wild;
we were like winter flames,
Christmas candles
lasting all year round.
You played guitar like
a tragic rock star,
one that gave up love for fame,
who wanders around Hollywood today
with a notebook of 90s songs,
his satin heart painted over
with crayon, underneath his
shredded Train band shirt.
Oh but darling,
I never stopped believing in you,
in how you could pick yourself
back up from the rubble of
your negative thoughts.
You were a meteor;
a shooting star,
meant to survive,
despite the bleakness
of the ashen sky surrounding you.
Heaven is so overrated, after all..
Whatever happens,
you'll always be
my unholy martyr;
an angel-painted scar
on the sunset peach skin
of my arm, a raven tattoo.

So I guess someday we'll finally
figure out why the trains were
so loud and fast, gliding down
the countryside tracks
on the night we both left.
It was like they couldn't wait
to run us out of town,
the sound so piercing.
And perhaps someday
we'll also understand
why people started
worshiping stars in the first place,
betting everything;
life, love, money on constellations.
All I know is, our
signs didn't mean a thing
as I held your hand,
my winter jacket between us;
covering up the evidence of
our topsy-turvy relationship.
Oh if I could take back that
moment, I would..

It was just weakness, fear,
not wanting to be the subject
of small town hick gossip.
But there you were, standing on my driveway
the night of senior prom;
your "date" ruined like
a blotted-out painting, smeared Picasso,
blurry Matisse; watery
landscape, a flowerbed lie.
With your hands shoved in your pockets,
your bright caramel eyes
looking up at me from the street below,
you shrugged sheepishly  and mumbled,
"It's always been you, boy."

A farewell kiss, we missed it;
that's the saddest part of all
this Hollywood drama, teen blockbuster,
love sparred out on the football field.
Those days were like an old western
boy-meets-boy episode.
And we had it all in our hands
when it slipped away;
this perfect original story
to tell our future grand-kids.
But now we'll never know what
could have been of
those misshapen Lego years,
darling bluebird.
lost-and-found summer
"Ninety miles outside Chicago
Can’t stop driving I don’t know why
So many questions, I need an answer
Two years later you're still on my mind

Whatever happened to Amelia Earhart?
Who holds the stars up in the sky?
Is true love just once in a lifetime?

Did the captain of the Titanic cry?

Oh, Someday we’ll know
 If love can move a mountain
Someday we’ll know
 Why the sky is blue
Someday we’ll know
Why I wasn’t meant for you..."
- Someday We'll Know, Rascal Flats
Oleander blossoms fall on our city,
painting it silvery pink and dreamy.
But you're awake, sketching fiercely,
the remnants of a bad phone call
to your parents etched out in
violent strokes of teal and charcoal.

Pencil shavings on the floor,
paper cuts; girl, you're brutal
with your own feelings, aren't you?
And I feel sorry for the birds that
have to listen to your crying
in the early mornings.
They try their hardest to make you
smile, but after awhile,
they leave; flying off
while feeling unworthy,
like nothing they do will
ever be good enough
to send you to Wonderland.

Oh Hadley, take a breath..
You're as dry as a bone
in a forest of tulips and wild lavender.
You're a runaway from Canada;
you made it across the border,
leaped over the wildfire-tainted grass
plains and now you're here on my doorstep.
Oh how can I turn you away, ma cherie?
I only wish it were easier
to be your partner in crime;
your long-lost lover, twin
shadow, scarlet paramour.

And sometimes I can't tell
the difference between our
bright mirror reflections.
Girl, you're so stunning in your heat;
your last season rage,
Lebanese bracelets wrapped tightly
around your wrists.
"To write love on her arms",
you never were one of those kids, girl.
You used to say, "If I'm going
to do it someday, it's all or nothing;
not in pieces, chunks of fairy
skin, dirtying up the bathroom tiles.
Suicide lilies in my veins," you claimed.
"Blossom thick and pretty.
Oh I'm not a cutter, I swear.."

That always used to scare me,
hearing you say these things.
But now I get it..
I understand all the dark alleys
of your Canterbury mind.
With a princess brain,
you were raised in the spoils of
east Toronto,
but had a nobility all your own,
despite never setting foot
inside a palace on a hill,
surrounded by
security; wrought iron
angel gates.
You knew you were meant
for better things than
your dad's collection
of beer cans,
his obsession with wrestling;
getting into fights with
other neighborhood men
just for the hell of it.

And you taught yourself
how to fight dirty,
putting on lipstick
in the faded mirror
in your corner bedroom;
a cut space, no bigger
than someone's sick closet
filled with secrets
and suburban lies.

Oh and you helped me through
the confusion of
our senior year
when we met in the cell block
hallways of Clone High.
Raised in foster homes,
I was so used to being
pushed aside in favor of
a more interesting, beautiful child.
But for some reason,
I was more than good enough
in the depths of your
magic marble eyes.
Sin-colored, deep;
they held me prisoner
every night at around 8:45
when we would sneak out of
our cracked windows
and meet under the 7 Eleven
sign on West Keoning Avenue.

Dressed in army shades,
a cropped jacket, your
shiny midriff exposed;
girl, you're the sexiest
fallen angel I've ever come across
in my quest for acceptance
in a Brooklyn atmosphere.
Crumbling down, the city
of my youth was meant for headlines,
crime and money heists,
shootings on every street corner;
ringing out like blasts
in the night, a supernova bursting
in a million acidic sparks.

But we were meant to be remembered..
Well, at least you were, and
envy was never in my blood before
but since I've met you, darling,
this toxic feeling has infected
my once pure seashell veins.
You are my Aphrodite, even
though you claim to be born
under the planet Mars;
the deity of war, not
music and undeniable beauty.
Girl, you're so hard on yourself,
claiming a tragic horoscope
in your jasmine veins.
But still, you're my warrior princess;
your smart blood pink and dangerous.

And maybe I'm so attached
because you protected me
through all the confusion
of growing up an orphan,
drifting from trailer park
to trailer park; foster
homes lined up along
the chilling Atlantic coast.
But girl, I'm here to stay..
Make me your Aphrodite;
your one and only charm,
something to give you luck
when you feel like giving up,
alone and scarred by
past disappointments.
Harsh curse words are
stamped across your
momentous heart, girl.

But like clockwork,
your brain calculates everything
carefully, your next move;
escape plan marked like
horse-shoe dots on a map of
sad North America.
Make me your one and only
exception, your own rule
against falling in love;
shattered and
glistening on the floor.

And maybe I'm just naive..
You do what you wish every time, girl.
But here's the thing;
it's too late to take back Sunday
night confessions in your room,
shots of whisky,
tattoos on each others' wrists.
It's far too late to rip out
your memory from my mind
like yanking off that locket;
necklace you gave me,
from around my throat;
say you were nothing
more than a fling,
a night of fun,tinged
with Puritan remorse.

Hadley, if you're going down,
then you're dragging me
to hell with you because
for you, darling; I'd set
the trees on fire, burn
their evergreen souls
just to kill the little
white lies, secrets
they shed every winter.
Disturbing memories
litter the ground
but girl, you're worth it.
Hadley, you're worth
the pain of betrayal,
loss; missing my parents,
not knowing where I came from.

Blood and saltwater
painted our landscapes
when we were just sixteen.
The ancient gold bracelet
I hid in the crinkled
pages of my diary was
a promise, broken.
But Hadley, I'll find
a way to thank you for
saving my skin
all those desperate times
back in high school because
you made sure I was remembered,
when all I wanted was to disappear,
become the mourning phantom
in a dead lover's opera.

So girl, I'll find a way
to thank you for everything..
I don't want to wake up
one afternoon after drinking
sour wine the night before,
bleary thoughts leaking into
the dawn's early amber hours,
I don't want to open my eyes
to find out all this is gone;
the ghost of our kiss,
surreal and clean
like an Alberta summer,
dissipating in the sailor mist.
girl/girl inspired by the characters Amanda and Emily from my favorite show, Revenge, and the idea that they could be alter-egos.
October drowned my memory in
toxins made out of pumpkin seeds;
sunrise casket wood burning
and square pieces of Granny Smith
apples left behind on a park trail.
I was cold and reclusive when you found me,
jabbing at innocent piano keys
with war paint fingers, bleeding out notes
of Chopin and Mozart just to feel something.

Getting drunk on the sandstone streets of
Sedona, faraway from home; I'm a lost cause,
my professors said, would never be good enough
to play with orchestras worldwide.
"But at least, he tries.."
Well, I've been trying my hardest
to leap over the electric fences
that people keep putting up around me,
to cage me in a prison of critics;
$5000 clones, all grim-faced and merciless,
lacking hearts made of
sea brine and calla lilies,
their cold skin permanently chalk-outlined.

Spring breeze; we sit next to each other
at university and listen to lectures
about revolutionary kids in East L.A;
Latin-Americans like us, rising up
against principals and teachers who
forced them to bleed their mistakes in class.
Oh that was before the Rodney King Riots..
My grandma talks about them all the time
and usually I just roll my eyes,
sipping iced tea at the kitchen table
and eating corn fried tamales,
made fresh in the honeycomb morning.
But now I appreciate the stories,
the real-life tales of struggle
on the streets of West Hollywood.
Now I get it, friend; I understand
how frustrated we get when we're young,
forced to obey adults who couldn't
give a damn about us, our plans.
And when we dream; they scoff, make us
feel idiotic for trying.
Oh I wish I could prove myself
in a way that won't
exhaust me in the end; leave me
broken and unable
to enjoy a well-earned victory.

Do you think I'm overconfident?
That's hilarious, but so what?
Boy, you were the one who believed
I could be the best music student around..
I could see it in your smile,
in the way you asked me to sit with you
and your friends during lunch.
It puzzled me because usually
people left me alone, even my father
couldn't be bothered with
his screwed-up prodigy son.

"I don't know where he gets it from,"
I heard him say to my mother once.
Divorced; bitter, he lost her
just like he lost me.
And you know what?
As cruel as this sounds,
I couldn't give a damn
if his business is sinking,
if he's lost his footing on the social ladder
and tumbles down because
he was always bragging;
always making me feel inadequate, left out.
Well, old man, now you
can see that what goes around, comes around.

It's just like that..
Did they expect me to not fight back,
to not win another trophy just to see
my name engraved in gold lettering?
Oh I just wanted to say,
"I made it to Julliard, without you, Dad."
And you know what?
I did, but the pain of his rejection
still falls over me like a bucket of
December ice water over my head..
Will I ever be free of that
heart-wrenching 5th grade memory
in black and white;
a Nick-at-Nite TV set, broken
on the bearskin rug
on our living room floor?

That was horrible, I had to clean it up..
He tore my mother's photograph,
called her a tramp for leaving;
right in front of me,
he called her a bitch.
But you know what?
I think she did the right thing.
He never appreciated her,
to begin with, but I still wish
she would've taken me with her..
Even if we'd had
to survive on the mean California
sun-baked streets,
barrios where women carry heavy
baskets on their heads; piled
high with oranges
to sell by the highway;
even if we'd had to starve
for a few nights before
walking the long journey
to the bus stop,
honey, I swear
I'd still want
to be with my dear Mamá.

But she never thought to come back
and I can't blame her.
Life with the sperm donor who
called himself my father was
like hurricane season;
unpredictable, tumultuous.
I had to leave as soon as possible,
pack up my sheet music and sweaters,
get the hell out while he was still
sober in the early morning hours.

I remember the blue jays seemed to be
egging me on as I ran down the dusty
streets of our neighborhood,
catching the bus at the last minute,
heading for San Pedro.

You were there, waiting for your little sister.
You were reading a magazine
about country rock festivals.
It made me smile crookedly,
and then our eyes met for the first time..
I bet you remember every detail,
but so do I; how your lashes were
sand-colored, your Arizona sky irises,
how you waved enthusiastically
when you saw little Jenny,
whom you hadn't seen since
your parents' custody hearing.
Yeah, we had some things in common,
neither of us understood the meaning of family.

But I was intent on denying
our connection back then,
friend, because I was scared
of getting my hopes up;
of being abandoned again..
But you were patient,
waited after each and every concert
just to say, "Congratulations, man!"
My own dad never did that, you know?
And to this day, I still don't know
why you tried so hard
to break through the Scorpio night
that I'd wrapped around myself like
a second skin; the Great Wall of China.
Boy, you brought me flowers;
the darkest roses I'd ever seen,
maroon almost, like the Virgin
Mary's tears on a tombstone.

I was puzzled when you handed them to me
after I'd played Chopin
for three long hours but
you said, "Because you're like them;
you stand out among thorns, thistles;
you can never be ignored,
even with bruised petals; boy,
you're unforgettable in the rain."
Oh I just had to hug you then,
to feel alive again,
to feel your warmth and know
you were telling the truth.
Friend, I had to bury my face
in your neck, know
that I wasn't just
imagining all this praise;
you really believed in me
as a person, you didn't see me as
a ghost-kid, drifting from pueblo
to pueblo, one Mexican-American
town after another;
unacknowledged by anyone living,
human beings only seeing white.

You were right when you told me,
"Perhaps, boy, you're an Arizona
puzzle that no human can ever solve."
But at the time, this made me angry.
"What makes you so special?"
I demanded, my cheeks flaming with
uncensored emotion.
You were breaking down my barriers
of self-restraint,
of long nights rolling around in
the Phoenix heat,
Athens sheets twisting
around my ankles.
"Maybe I don't scare easily," you teased.
You shrugged your broad shoulders,
made me want to rip your shirt off,
see the body beneath;
all the electric Paris veins,
long ropes of muscle,
your ethnic chest.

My skin was a lot paler,
less exotic and special.
But still, you wanted
to hold me close, roll me over
in your Santa Monica hands.
And now I get it, why
you tried so hard to
make me see; because, boy,
there's no such thing as "normal"..
There's just you and me, darling.
Mr.Piano Man
sort of inspired by this lovely piece:<da:thumb id="487444291">


United States
Current Residence: Texas
Favourite genre of music: rock


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LancelotPrice Featured By Owner 7 hours ago
Thanks, Sharon, for faving 'planets'. :)
autumn-spirit Featured By Owner 5 hours ago
no problem :) it's been awhile but great penning!
LancelotPrice Featured By Owner 16 minutes ago
Scarlettletters Featured By Owner 14 hours ago  Professional Writer
I appreciate you faving my work - many thanks!
autumn-spirit Featured By Owner 13 hours ago
no problem :) your work is amazing and exquisite :)
Elfyah Featured By Owner 2 days ago  Hobbyist Photographer
Thank you for your support!
autumn-spirit Featured By Owner 1 day ago
no problem :)
SeamlessMaiden Featured By Owner 2 days ago  Student Writer
Thanks so much for the fave, dear! :tighthug:
autumn-spirit Featured By Owner 2 days ago
no problem, dear :D
SeamlessMaiden Featured By Owner 2 days ago  Student Writer
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