Ah, yes, those college days. Running amok the other cockroaches on campus. Trying so hard to get from one old, mucky building to another one. Strange statues and despicable attempts at pieces of art scattered among the leaves and grass.
I did always have a passion for Greek Mythology; there was something about those stories that sparked interest inside of me. The ability to have such strong, well-written characters enveloped by even greater feats and tales.
I like to compare women to Greek Myths, for they are both appealing, majestic, and full of mystery. Tangled webs of secrets shrouded in a very detailed yet dangerous mystique.
A certain aura that hides behind that spectacular flirty look; the eyes with impenetrable walls hiding that which is craving to be revealed. Persephone was no different. She was a mystery, even to me.
He approached her in class; small talk, the usual. It was your simple college conversation, if it wasn't for one particular thing: the redhead had woken something, something about his writing. It was as if she was a muse, igniting creativity that was long dormant, just waiting patiently to re-awaken.
If it wasn't because he was already starting to drink more heavily, perhaps his drunken state of consciousness would have allowed me to warn him not to send that e-mail. Those slurred yet suspenseful words, asking, wondering...
But mostly, just plainly confusing her.
A poor man's broken poem begging to sound poetic, yet barely scratching the surface.
I did always have a passion for Greek Mythology; there was something about those stories that sparked interest inside of me. The ability to have such strong, well-written characters enveloped by even greater feats and tales.
I like to compare women to Greek Myths, for they are both appealing, majestic, and full of mystery. Tangled webs of secrets shrouded in a very detailed yet dangerous mystique.
A certain aura that hides behind that spectacular flirty look; the eyes with impenetrable walls hiding that which is craving to be revealed. Persephone was no different. She was a mystery, even to me.
He approached her in class; small talk, the usual. It was your simple college conversation, if it wasn't for one particular thing: the redhead had woken something, something about his writing. It was as if she was a muse, igniting creativity that was long dormant, just waiting patiently to re-awaken.
If it wasn't because he was already starting to drink more heavily, perhaps his drunken state of consciousness would have allowed me to warn him not to send that e-mail. Those slurred yet suspenseful words, asking, wondering...
But mostly, just plainly confusing her.
A poor man's broken poem begging to sound poetic, yet barely scratching the surface.
Her response awkwardly assuring him it was okay. That she did not mind.
That red hair slowly hypnotizing, confusing him. Those flapping lashes sending chills down his spine.
The laugh and the smile when revisiting that silly e-mail.
Oh dear, Persephone.
How I will miss thee.
College days are long gone, and so are you.
But we will never forget that enigmatic look you gave.
That red hair slowly hypnotizing, confusing him. Those flapping lashes sending chills down his spine.
The laugh and the smile when revisiting that silly e-mail.
Oh dear, Persephone.
How I will miss thee.
College days are long gone, and so are you.
But we will never forget that enigmatic look you gave.
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