http://slow.writerscafe.org/taylorrenee9 The original writings of author Hey Hey Renee en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776028680 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 act i.his eyes search yours,looking for some sort of sign--some sort of way to knowthat you're okay."im alright," you say.and he should know.  he should.but he doesn't."good," with a smile.and it's too latenow to tell him thatyou would never lie to him.you would never lie.and it's too late tobr.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/taylorrenee9/1115206/ it's 2 a.m. and all I can remember is the sound of your withering gasps and the clawing of the words up your throat.  my alarm clock is one of those oldies; rings like a bell and doesn't light up, but in the faint glow of the busted street lamp outside I can make out the hands.  it's 2 a.m.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/taylorrenee9/1107344/ p.s.or does that go at the bottombecause it's supposed to bea fleeting glance from a womanwith stones for eyes anda head full of New York cities?p.s. her flight takes off at29 minutes to midnight,and no matter how fast you runand no matter how hard yourrubber shoes slap against the pavement,you will.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/taylorrenee9/1106478/ i remember the dayyou caught the windinside your arms andkissed its cheek oncebefore letting it go.you told me that ifi really loved him iwould let him go, buti never was able toask you how i wassupposed to let yougo if i never had youin the first place.you were never oneto be hypocriticallike me, b.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/taylorrenee9/1106120/ we werered nail polishcracking underpressure.we werethe peeling paintof the walls;the shiftingfoundation.we were once theknucklespopping loosefrom saggingskin. thecrinklesunder her eyes, the edges of thelaugh lines.we wereeverything;the dirty glasses stained withlemonadeand the shatteredbo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/taylorrenee9/1105477/ Sometimes, when it’s late at night, the dark speaks to her.She lies in bed, curling into herself, watching the headlights from cars passing through, and sometimes listening to the sorrowful song of the police sirens that wail in the night, lonely.  She keeps one curtain pulled back to let.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/taylorrenee9/1105472/