By the time 4:45 rolled around, I’d stopped fitfully tossing around like a hooked fish in my mess of blankets. I’d been awake for two hours – sleep was, at this point, merely something nice to look forward to another time. My eyes were heavy so I opened them slowly, and then I pulled back [read more ...]
I used to have a certain flair for writing in metaphor when I described food. I could wax poetic for hours about the stew my mother used to make and the way braising meat reminded me of her soft, indifferent smile. I could tell you about licking lavender glaze from my fingers with my once-boyfriend [read more ...]
Copyright © 2009 - 2013. RochelleBilow.com - All rights reserved.