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There is the doctor, and there is in his mind a chorus. It says:

you remember meeting her her hair her eyes her fawn steps when she walked into your office

No, That’s not how it happened.

#this post brought to you by anne carson's antigonick rewiring my brain temporarily #i have been possessed with a spirit of stylistic experiment #>hasnt posted for like 6months >comes back with this wack shit #u know what it is #|| MONOLOGUES.

for @handtame( desk ) - our muses have sex in an office, clothed

By the time he had come to terms with it, in all its tragedy, it was already too late.

The girl had crashed into him like a tide, mouth spilling hot over his, hands firmly locked about the collar of his shirt. Stricken with the shock of it he had barely reacted when she had pushed him back into his leather chair and climbed into his lap, bruised knees pressing into his thin waist. She had let go of him just long enough to tug his tie loose and a few buttons with it, a firm hand slipping beneath the linen to trace along his collarbone. A violent shiver had taken him. Weakly he had tried to say her name, but the word lost itself between lips that should never have met, like a hare torn apart by hungry dogs.

#there's a readmore for a reason kids #and its not the smut #im warning you #sunmad #|| MONOLOGUES.#|| UNDONE & DIVINE. ( love is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling )#|| v. MODERN. ( tell me your despair and i will tell you mine )

@sunmad said; “ You’re mine. Only mine. ”

Oswald’s breath leaves a trail of mist behind him as he runs. It’s pitch-black outside, early morning, the sun still slumbering in the aftermath of winter. His workout attire, sleek black, melds into the shadow, like at any moment he could vanish into the night and never again be found. Faster, he thinks. Run faster. Away from that terrible dream, the hot weight of it - the weight of her. Her hair that smelled of dust and sunlight. Away from her soft skin and her hands in his hair. Away from his voice hoarsely crying out her name.

#sunmad #nsft //#this post brought to you by luca guadagnino's Queer and ethel cain's Perverts #filed under posts that almost made me walk into oncoming traffic #|| MONOLOGUES.

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♱ indie & selective OSWALD of CARIM of Dark Souls. some personal lore & canon divergence. sideblog to @henosiis. strictly 21+. written by kat!

EXPLORING sin, devotion, redemption, forgiveness, self-reflection, and loving what can never die.

♱ est. 2014 resurrected oct. 2021 ♱ DOSSIER. ♱ affiliated with @sunmad

#new year new promo i guess!!!#|| COSMÉTIQUE.#|| DIALOGUES.#|| MONOLOGUES.#|| OUT OF CHURCH.#|| QUEUE.#|| INVITATIONS.#|| CARNAVALESQUES.#|| NOMINATIONS.#|| PORTRAIT.#|| ACCOUTREMENTS.#|| MÉLODIES.#|| UNDONE & DIVINE. ( love is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling )#|| i. PARDONER. ( it is only human to commit a sin )#|| ii. GODKILLER. ( et l'homme tuera dieu )#|| iii. COMMANDER. ( il est plus ardu de guérir que de vaincre )#|| iv. BLOODBORNE. ( cruelty is a gift humanity has given itself )#|| v. MODERN. ( tell me your despair and i will tell you mine )#|| vi. NOIR ( hell will hold no surprises for us )#|| vii. SILENT HILL ( and god herself will be with them )#|| viii. DARK SOULS 3 ( he will appear to you in the black feathers of mercy )#|| BELOVED GODDESS. ( dear god; let me give you my life )#|| OH MIRIAM. ( i loved you with the good and the careless in me )

[ let go ] after holding onto receiver's hand for a while, sender finally, reluctantly releases their grip

THE ROMANCE OF HANDS & TOUCH. / OPEN.

It’s a short ride from the police station to the waterside where Oswald parks the car. They rode in a tense, pained silence, the rumble of the engine and the quiet song of crooners on the radio their only reprieve from it’s seeming eternity. He didn’t know what to say, and he warrants Miriam didn’t either.

He’d gotten the call around 1 A.M. “ I’m sorry, ” Miriam had answered through dry sobs. “ I didn’t know who else to call. ” She’d been found huddled at the back of a Corolla in an old dealership in the industrial district, a cold girl just looking to spend the night anywhere with a door, with a lock. So Oswald had thrown on his coat and left the comforts of sleep for the station. “ I’ll be right there, dear. Just give me a few minutes, ” he had said, voice uncharacteristically rough with the unexpected waking. He’d driven safely despite the web of feelings being spun in his gut as though by a great spider. He was worried, of course - they’d taken her in on trespassing charges, but surely she didn’t have any ID. Had they checked her bag and inevitably found drugs? Had they been rough with her, or at all uncouth? He found it hard to stomach the thought of her alone in a holding cell, her only crime having sought shelter in the frigid night.

He’d been at the station by 1:30 A.M. Only a few minutes after talking to the officer in charge they were already gone. Miriam hadn’t hugged him when she’d been released, hadn’t spoken at all while they remained inside. She’d been quiet, apologetic in her silence. She looked tired and hungry, like a lost child, or a martyr. The cops teased them about the fancy car. Oswald escorted her out with an arm around her shoulders.

“ How’d you do it? ” she had asked as he opened the passenger door of the Cadillac for her. “ What do you mean? ” He sat himself. “ Get me out, I mean. How’d you do it? ” “ I lied, ” he had answered so naturally. He didn’t tell her that he said he was her father.

They’d pulled up at a drive-through on the harbor ( “ You look like you’d eat me if I gave you the chance, ” he’d said, surely meaning to tease, but his tone was tired and she found it unnerving. ) For himself Oswald took only a black coffee. In the confessional darkness of the car, Miriam apologized again. “ I must have woken you up. ” “It’s alright, dear. I told you you could always call me if there was an emergency, after all. I’m just glad I could be there. ” He’d sighed as they drove away. He sounded exhausted. Did he resent her for this? Maybe he’d have her make it up to him, somehow. She wasn’t sure how to feel about the thought.

It’s almost 2 A.M. now. They’re parked by the waterside under the cold halide lamps, at a small quay where older locals liked to fish and younger ones liked to smoke weed and make out. The pavement is strewn with broken glass. A drunk had puked up his night’s excess at the very edge of the cement. It’s just the two of them now. Oswald turns the key and the engine’s purr dies with a hot sigh. He clears his throat as he exits the car, closing his black wool coat about himself. Miriam follows him, her demureness reminiscent of the quiet apologia that follows an argument.

He leans against the front bumper of the car, a cigarette in one hand, the other roaming his pockets. When he sighs mist enshrouds him in gold, white hair yellowed by the streetlights. “ Here I am, ” he smiled, the ghost of impatience ruining his usual genuinity, “ up at 2 A.M., smoking by the bay like a teenager. I havn’t smoked in years, you know? ” he adds, the patting at his pockets growing frustrated. “ Say, Miriam, dear, have you got a light? ” That was what he said. But what she heard was, You always find a way to bring out the worst in me. She looks out to the water, star-specked with the cityscape’s myriad lights. She gives him the lighter anyway. “ Thanks, darling. ”

He offers her one before lighting his own cigarette up, takes a long drag, head thrown back in the pleasure of old habit. Miriam fiddles with her bag. “ Come, ” he tells her, and she obeys, though she dares not look into his eyes. He’s tired and resentful, and she’s just waiting for the thunder of his anger to strike. But it never does. When he leans in close to light her up she shivers like soft grass before lightning. A smoky exhale trails behind him as he redresses, but something holds him back. Miriam’s hand is closed on his, holding the lighter. She doesn’t care for the trinket. Wet eyes are fixed on him, puffy with dried tears. She tugs ever so lightly at him, soft fingers searching for his own, thin and bony. This is her begging: Please, my God, let me have this. Just a moment, let me have this. And then I will ask for nothing more.

“ Miriam… Oh, Miriam. ”

He looks sad, with his white hair falling on his sunken face, when his thumb moves to caress hers, a soft and lithe touch, the only kind he can afford himself lest he forgive reason and embrace her. Poor lonely Miriam, with no one in the world but him. Right there in her icy eyes, he can see it so clearly. Right there alone by the dark water and the shining city lights he’s all she has. In another life, he kisses her hard and fast. But in this one, he slowly unwraps her hand from his, pulls away from the closest they’ve ever been to breaking. He cannot be her everything, can’t afford to throw it all away for her, skinny girl with her beautiful gaze that chills like winter, for her fascinating black-hole desires and all consuming, all consummating love. But he can at least bear her hurts, for now. He steps away, cigarette burning between cold lips, sighs as his hands reluctantly quit hers to hide in his coat. He closes his eyes, face like a mask of death under the lights, as another smoke-heavy exhale hides him, if briefly, from her burning own.

“ I have to make a call. Would you wait in the car for me? ”

When he sits next to her again in the darkness the well of emotions in her ragged throat is unbearable. Touch me, she thinks, do anything you want, but please don’t hate me. Please don’t hate me. In silence he puts in his key and the engine roars to life. She’s been good, she’s been obedient. Surely he’ll forgive her her small transgression, her tentative peek beyond the boundaries of their doctor-patient relationship. “ Where are we going? ” she asks sheepishly. When he answers he fails to hide a certain irritation in his tired voice. “ I have a conference tomorrow-” a flick of his wrist as he checks the time, “ four hours from now. Damned Europeans. I’d like to get at least a little bit of sleep until then. ” She feels guilty, but says nothing.

“ Don’t worry, ” he tells her as they roll up on the highway. “ I've found you somewhere for tonight. ” She doesn’t ask what will become of her. After what he did for her tonight, he’d still be a saint for leaving her on a street corner to wander till morning. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t talk any more, nor looks at her. He just drives home.

#i wrote this on paper in a fugue state from 1 to 3 am last night #just so everybody knows how much this is the dynamic of all time #cinema to me #i hope you like it!!!!!#sunmad #|| MONOLOGUES.#|| v. MODERN. ( tell me your despair and i will tell you mine )#|| OH MIRIAM. ( i loved you with the good and the careless in me )

@sunmad requested a spotify wrapped starter. 88 - Happy by Mitski.

Happy came to visit me, he bought cookies on the way I poured him tea and he told me “It’ll all be okay” Well I told him I’d do anything to have him stay with me So he laid me down And I felt happy come inside of me He laid me down and I felt happy

He’s taken to bringing her treats, she’s noticed. Never full meals, nothing filling. When he leaves she usually finds herself wanting, hungry for more.

Miriam’s under the weather these days, staying at a flimsy motel with what little she can scrounge together from moonlighting at bars and other haphazard gigs. Too cold to sleep outside in Seattle this time of year. It’s a dingy place she’s found for herself, but not without a rustic charm that reminds her of home. It looks incongruous in the city, this motel, with its vintage wood panelings and dim farmhouse lights - an old place full of ghosts. Well, she’s a stranger here too, foreign, like a tumor on the concrete organs of it, parasite in its steel blood. Behind closed curtains that barely keep out the setting sun’s light, Miriam has taken to imagining all the people that have come and gone from this very room throughout the years; lone travelers, businessmen, pairs of gentle lovers. She snickered at the thought. This wasn’t a place for love, not free love anyway. This was a bed where you’d take a whore. Yes, it felt like home, and it was, for now.

He’d texted her when he got to the motel. The notification woke her from the half-sleep of fever. Miriam hurriedly turns on her phone camera, arranges her hair, puts on chapstick. She can’t bear her reflection in the bathroom mirror, years of reflected impurity seeming to bare the depth of her marred soul. She had cried in front of it, just the night before, turmoil brewing like a black sea in her mind, had covered it with a towel in fear she would glance upon it again. Her emotions felt sharp, too violent to handle. It was often like this. Illness had never relieved her of it.

Would he notice, she asked herself? Would he smell the sickness on her and turn back in disgust? Maybe he’d finally see her for what she is; sick freak and with sick needs, just like the girl in the mirror last night, sitting lonely with her sins. She cannont bear the thought of the good doctor seeing her like this. She wants to be perfect for him, for the role she plays in the strange theater of their relationship. She’s rummaging through her meager belongings, hands grabbing in the dark of her purse for a bottle of cheap perfume, when he knocks at the door.

“ Miriam? ”

She hesitates, a primal anxiousness welling in her gut. Another quiet knock. She crosses the room and opens the door meekly, as though expecting a stranger. It’s him. Of course, it’s him. There was a time where she would have been scared, standing before Oswald in the crack of the doorway like the maw of a beast, his strong presence, his woody scent; now an inexplicable relief hits her like drugs straight in the vein. Her sweet doctor, her lone savior. “ Um, come in. I’m sorry, it’s a bit of a mess, ” she says, a hint of embarassment coloring her cheeks. She feels hot, too close to the sky, to God.

Oswald’s steps are quiet on the carpet when he enters, sidling past her with a rustle of his woolen coat. She watches, turns to lock the door behind him more by habit than aught else. He places a small bag on the dusty table in the corner, produces a plastic takeout bowl from it as he looks around the room. She imagines disappointment in his eyes. “ You said you were feeling poorly, so I thought I’d bring you something, ” he says nonchalantly. “ I figured you must be in a right state to cancel your appointment. I do hope you’re feeling somewhat better? ” She isn’t. As a matter of fact, when he closes back in on her in a long stride, haloed in the dim light of the ceiling sconce light, she feels as though she might faint.

His brow furrows as he examines her, gaze worried as he peers over her reddened and tired features. With a small shake of his head he takes off a black glove and places the back of his palm on her forehead. “ Oh, dear. That simply won’t do, ” he half-whispers. It burns, the touch, though his hand is cold, like she has gently lowered her face into a soft bed of snow. Instinctively Miriam takes a step back. “ I didn’t know you’d taken to playing nursemaid, doctor, ” she chuckles weakly, tightening her jacket around her shoulders in a vain effort to hide the chill that’s overtaken her. Instinctively she thinks of escape, regrets locking the door. She can’t bear him this close. “ What did you bring? ” Miriam stutters, escaping his tall shadow to go peek at the food. The smell is warm and hearty over that of the plastic bag. “ Pho ga, ” he replies, the hand that had scorched her skin squeezing briefly into a fist before he turns to face her again. “ There’s chopsticks in the bag, but I got a fork, just in case. ”

She breathes in the delicious aroma, stomach rumbling despite her pitiful state.

“ You brought me chicken soup? ”

He laughs. The sound warms her, not like the fever or like his touch, not a burn but a light and homelike feeling. Her shaking hand drags across the transparent lid of the container, warm and supple with the steam. She blinks away the tears that well up in her eyes, rubbing at them with the hem of her sleeve. The ghost of his hand lingers on her face, cool and intense. Though she had spoken as if jeering, she finds herself truly moved by the gesture, by his tender care. The relief of his presence is too immense for words, but she finds herself blurting them out anyways, a thought she normally would have kept to herself crawling out of her small mouth like a moth: “ I wish you would stay. Just a little while. ” Immediately she fears his derision. Shameless, greedy girl, to ask for more when already he does so much for her. But he only looks surprised for a moment before a smile graces his stern features. Always playful, the therapist acquiesces with a small flourish: “ Thy wish is my command. ”

“ You don’t have to do this, you know, ” she says, smiling nevertheless as he sits next to her on the bed. She settles in slowly, not with deliberation but with dizziness, shuffling awkwardly around his weight on the mattress. “ Of course not. But maybe I like playing nursemaid, ” Oswald’s lips purse into a smirk as he recalls her words from earlier, before early winter night had enveloped them in its comforting darkness. Light is dim now in the motel room, the bedside lamp casting an orange glow on the panelled walls, the brown and dusty carpet, on her rosy skin. Miriam’s mind is buzzing with a thousand thoughts like wasp stings, the inside of her skull burning with them. There’s an ache in her chest she can’t name, a flame she can neither fully attribute to rising fever nor to the proximity of her beloved doctor, his hand so close to hers, his gaze soft, so tender as to hurt.

“ I prayed that you would come, ” the confession fall from her parted lips like blood from a wound. “ It felt like I was on fire, and I shouldn’t have, but I prayed that you’d appear like you did that day…” Miriam is hushed, swallows a sob as he raises a hand to brush stray hair from her cheek in wordless reassurance. Curled knuckles graze her skin, fingers unfolding along her temple. His touch is like ice, like hail on her hot skin, the prickling of hundreds of needles. “ My dear, you’re burning up, ” he sighs. She yields under his hand, his gentle hand, as it lowers to her shoulder and ever so delicately guides her to lay down on the bed. Miriam’s heart rears into a gallop. He holds her briefly there, white hair falling on his shoulder like snow, looming over her like in a dance, or a deep kiss. Fear and worry vanish from her as though he exorcised them with the lightest touch. And he calls her mine, mine, mine. He can never know what it does to her when he says those things. It burns more than the fever, more than scorching hot metal, more than the sun. It burns like the gaze of angels.

She takes his hand in hers, entwines their fingers through her hair, voice choked. “ I prayed… ”

“ Shhh, Miriam. It’s okay. It’s okay, ” Oswald murmurs to her tenderly. His thumb caresses her cheek, wipes a tear welling through her dark eyelashes. “ Sleep, now. ”

Her lips tremble and she bites down on them. Oh, how magical it is to feel his touch. If only he would wrap his long fingers around her wrists, take from her as she has taken from him. Always her savior gives, never lets her give of her own. If he only dared to ask she would gift him everything she has, everything she is. Through the haze of her affliction she looks up to him, to his silver eyes filled with pity. She wants to fight against it, to turn his sympathy away and leave only the caring, the warm love between them, but she feels so terribly weak. Once he had appeared to her like a shining knight as she writhed under the cruel eye of God, and again she felt that desire to hide in the fortress of his arms, to feel them wrap around her tightly, without judgement. They were strangers, that time. How come it was alright then, for him to be so close, for his heart to beat calm and soothing right next to hers, and not now? Why was it he always the one to pull away, sad and regretful?

She doesn’t want sleep. She wants to turn her face and press his palm against her lips and taste his skin. She wants her burning heart to crawl its way into her mouth and to give it tenderly up to his own, wants him to feel the hot blood in her veins, dark and sick. She wants him like this forever, poised above her in this bed made for outcasts and lonely men and whores.

“ Good night, Miriam. ”

Only treats. Never filling. He leaves and she finds herself wanting, hungry for more.

And if you’re going, take the moon Then maybe I will see you In the night; I’ll see you And when you go, take this heart I’ll make no more use of it When there’s no more you

#turned into a drabble and not a starter but wheeeee #my last post before i leave for the weekend #GASPED when i saw the song btw i went a little nuts...#free hannibal reference for yall in here too #sunmad #|| MONOLOGUES.#|| v. MODERN. ( tell me your despair and i will tell you mine )

🌿// @sunmad

The house is a mess - worse than Miriam has ever seen it. Streamers and decorative sparkles line the hardwood floors, emptied liquor glasses are strewn about. There are uncorked bottles of wine on the kitchen bar, a stain left by some spilled drink or other on the red tablecloth. “ I’m truly sorry, ” he says as he leads her in. “ I woke up so late I’ve hardly had the time to clean. ” She shakes her head lightly, her eyes taking in the uncharacteristic chaos of the normally spotless house. It’s strange to see, like a glimpse into her doctor’s personal life, a reminder that he continues to exist outside his office, beyond their lengthy conversations, outside her presence. It’s a new view on a life she suddenly feels like such a small part of. Here he must have drank with his friends. Here he must have talked about everything and nothing, casually, without afterthoughts and double-entendres. Here he must have sat next to his wife and gingerly kissed her pale cheek. Here, perhaps he did not think about her at all. “ You could have told me you were busy. I would’ve rescheduled, ” Miriam says, somewhat apologetic. Exhaustion is clear on his fine features when he turns to face her, pronounced eyebags under his glasses. He looks like he hasn’t slept. “ It’s alright. I wanted to see you. ” He catches himself smiling, swiftly looks away. He cannot bear her meltwater gaze, those pretty eyes that seem to find every crevice in his playful facade and look into his very soul. He doesn’t want her to see the needy truth of it, doesn’t want her to know that he also wants. His ponytail whips behind him like a brush, failing to erase words that should have remained thoughts.

Of course, he thought about her. There he sat and drank with his friends and imagined her clear laughter, her cheeks reddened by wine. There he wanted to talk about her, like he always wants to talk about her, but of course there was nothing he could say. There he sat next to his wife and…

Oswald guides her through the dishevelled house, to the coiled stairs she now knows so well. Distracted, she nearly bumps into him when he suddenly stops. Miriam lets out a small noise, takes a step back. “ Have you eaten yet? ” he says, before she can ask what’s going on. He can afford at least this: a simple show of care, just a few words. He says have you eaten, and not are you hungry, because he knows there is something in her that is hungry always. It’s something they share, that gets worse when they are together. They are alike in that sense; greedy, gluttonous. But the greed, there is so much love in it.

Leftovers spin in the microwave, it’s hum quiet over the classical music that always seems to fill the house. She’s heard this track before, in his office, although she couldn’t tell you who wrote it. It brings up memories of fears soothed, of a certain kind of disrobing. It was the type of music that played when he first began to peel back the layers of her, pushed past her instincts of flight, of locking oneself away, and saw the girl behind the fawn. A ding marks the coming feast, and she dutifully obeys when he tells her to stay put. Oswald takes care of everything, as he likes to do for her. He spots an unfinished bottle on the counter. She’s quickly presented with a generous plate - “ duck roast with chestnut stuffing and apples, ” he announces with a flourish - and then a glass of red wine. Their hands brush when he pushes the drink towards her. She doesn’t know how to tell him that she isn’t even hungry.

They’re three glasses in when they finally brave the stairs to the office. First the wine, then Ricard - a must-have in any french household, Oswald told her. She’s a little tipsy, and she wagers he is too, seeing how tightly his hand clings to the railing of the spiral staircase. He briefly glances at the equally-messy upstairs, sighs when he spots the office’s open door. “ I did tell them to stay out of it, ” he exhales sharply, a touch of irritation in his voice as he heads for it, ready to brush streamers and other remnants of Christmas cheer off his desk. Miriam hesitates in the doorway.

She notices it immediately, the sprig of mistletoe someone hastily affixed to the ceiling light in the center of the room. Notices it, and says nothing. “ Come on in, ” the doctor calls to her. “ I’m so sorry for the mess. I had made it clear there were to be no guests in here… ” he sighs again, and she hears him fiddle with some papers, throw something in the trashbin. He prepares to sit in his wingback chair, looks around to find his dearest patient standing statue-still, staring upwards. “ You’re usually quick to make yourself at home. What is it? ” his tone softens with curiosity, his head tilts. He extends a hand out to her.

And he walks toward her, soft-stepped, unknowing, like a bull to slaughter. The trap hangs red-berried and taunting above their heads. A ridiculous prank, and in poor taste. Who could have done this? Was it Judas, or perhaps the florist, Anri? He mutters a curse under his breath, looks up to the mistletoe. Then Miriam’s hand is in his, and he has no time to think of it.

For once, he stays silent. There is no need to talk. He knows what she wants; it is written on her red lips, on her flushing cheeks. It is written in the flutter of eyelashes and the biting blue beneath. Her hand tightens around his as she comes closer, presses their chests flush. Her heart beats fast against him, for him. He knows what she wants and she knows he cannot give it to her. If only the poison leaf were sufficient an excuse, could absolve him of the sin. Ah, but he’s trapped now, and Miriam’s hand is a she-wolf’s maw that demands its pound of flesh and will not let go. Oswald looks at her lips and shivers. Now her teeth are in him.

If only, if only. He wants to kiss her - he knows this, has known this. Her blue eyes would shut at his approach and she would meet him with all of her hungering love, all her desires brewed hot through months of restraint. And he would lose everything in her loving embrace. Her mouth would undo what remains of his resolve and he would damn himself for another taste of it. This, too, he knows. Above all else he is afraid of it, of what he would do for her. But his body warmed by alcohol will not settle for regretful thoughts. It, too, demands its due. It will not have what it wants. But, he thinks, he can afford at least this.

He raises a hand to his lips, presses them to his thumb. Miriam’s apprehensive gaze is like ice on him, a frigid gale that caresses his hand, his thin mouth, passes coldly over his closed eyes. She leans into his touch as he curls long fingers under her jaw. Her sweet doctor runs his thumb, still warm, up her fine chin and across her lower lip. It trembles as he tugs on it lightly, his fingertip wet at the edge of her mouth. She looks into his eyes like hot mercury as he looks at her and a shiver runs up her spine. His gaze is sharp, focused. She thinks she could melt with it. With a light pinch at her lip, he releases her. Not a kiss, not truly, but the ghost of one, a quiet confession of desire, over with as quick as a haunting.

Ever unapologetic, she licks her lips.

“ Merry Christmas, doctor, ” she whispers.

His fingers briefly entwine with hers. His words, murmured low, taste of liquor when he speaks.

“ Merry Christmas, my girl. ”

#now forgive me while i feel ill from banging out 1.3k words in 2hrs #happy new year lani!!! love u!!!#this should also count as a new years kiss---#|| MONOLOGUES.#|| OH MIRIAM. ( i loved you with the good and the careless in me )

#|| monologues.

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