In the mornings she taught me French and after breakfast she would paint and I would write and as the spring rain fell on the skylight and the tea steamed from its mugs my heart hummed to the music of the dream we’d found. xx Atticus
In the mornings
she taught me French
and after breakfast she would paint
and I would write
and as the spring rain fell on the skylight
and the tea steamed from its mugs
my heart hummed
to the music
of the dream
we’d found.
xx Atticus