what are you writing about? she finally asked.
you.
--- yeah, Im Easy Pickins, but I just want to lay there. Lie?
Awake with my eyes closed and Id want your leg draped nude over me, half of a protective coverpose.
Id pretend I was sleeping, but under my lids I would still see the shadows the way they played with the bone of your collar there.
That sun dress, the strap like a taught ropebridge over that exotic gorge. The hollow that I thought I could so easily trace and grasp with my thumb and forefinger, defining it without pressing, just below that spot where those cleopatran tendons held your head so high.
The junction there, so dark and smooth it seemed, a roux, bringing the thought of a spice I had yet to taste.
Id see the sun glowing on that sharp edge, pointing in that way towards your sternum, those thin skinned ripples so symmetrical above the yellow fabric when you turned your glance my way, and Id see it burned into my retina under a slow motion blink, a temporary lightning flash tattoo stored as I looked away and then back down to squint at this bright white sheet.
Id pretend I was sleeping, faking slow and deep peaceful breaths, but I would be seeing the way your long dark fingers wrapped so perfectly around the tile white of your coffee mug spiderlike with the French manicure tipping the grip that was so feminine and strong. I would be replaying the charge of that glance you shot my way again with that sip, longer than what was needed, and your leg is warm against me.
But Im Easy Pickins, and I know that there will come a day where I despise your collarbone.
you.
--- yeah, Im Easy Pickins, but I just want to lay there. Lie?
Awake with my eyes closed and Id want your leg draped nude over me, half of a protective coverpose.
Id pretend I was sleeping, but under my lids I would still see the shadows the way they played with the bone of your collar there.
That sun dress, the strap like a taught ropebridge over that exotic gorge. The hollow that I thought I could so easily trace and grasp with my thumb and forefinger, defining it without pressing, just below that spot where those cleopatran tendons held your head so high.
The junction there, so dark and smooth it seemed, a roux, bringing the thought of a spice I had yet to taste.
Id see the sun glowing on that sharp edge, pointing in that way towards your sternum, those thin skinned ripples so symmetrical above the yellow fabric when you turned your glance my way, and Id see it burned into my retina under a slow motion blink, a temporary lightning flash tattoo stored as I looked away and then back down to squint at this bright white sheet.
Id pretend I was sleeping, faking slow and deep peaceful breaths, but I would be seeing the way your long dark fingers wrapped so perfectly around the tile white of your coffee mug spiderlike with the French manicure tipping the grip that was so feminine and strong. I would be replaying the charge of that glance you shot my way again with that sip, longer than what was needed, and your leg is warm against me.
But Im Easy Pickins, and I know that there will come a day where I despise your collarbone.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
lavinia:
There and gone in the blink of an eye.
fukidunno:
Is this a dream?