Me (making Small Talk At The Bar): Yeah So I'm An Undead Creature Of The Night Who Subsists On The Blood

me (making small talk at the bar): yeah so i'm an undead creature of the night who subsists on the blood of the living. it's whatever i try not to make a big deal out of it. but just out of curiousity would any of you guys be like. into that. sexually

Scottish Winds

The night was a midnight blackness when you slowly opened your eyes and gently turned your head to the side.

She slept peacefully beside you, curled in her rhythmical breathing as you watched her in the darkness for a moment.

Her blonde tressles crowned her sleeping mind, and suddenly she too was awake and met your eyes.

You bent to kiss her cheek and she closed her eyes in pleasing comfort. Soon she fell back into her dreams of your love.

You sat up and lit a ciggarette and listened to the screaming Scottish winds threatening at your door. It howled and monstrously beat at a distant gate in the farm yard.

The tiny red fire of your ciggarette moved with you into the other room where Heather and the baby huddled together under thick woolen blankets. You stood watching them a few minutes until the thrashing of the wind interrupted your silent thoughts.

You angrily stubbed out your ciggarette in the sink and peered out the window for an instant at the annoying pestilence until you noticed your wife standing in the doorway of the bedroom.

She looked concerned and tired as you reached for her and closed the door. She traced your bearded jaw with her slender finger before you leaned to kiss her silent mouth.

Together you layed your weary minds down and she felt your heavy sigh trouble her heart.

“They’d better not come back tomorrow,” you whispered as she stretched her fingers across your hand.

There were no more words, no more ciggarettes, no more sighs or heartless windhowls- only the steady pulse of you lover’s heart and the blackness of a sleeping night.

- A poem by Paul McCartney, circa 1970 (via Paul McCartney, The Lyrics)