First they were like the animals that her sounds reminded him of, and later they were slow like the swaying of the dying leaves in the fall. Afterwards, he lay awake for a long time, running his fingers from her freckled shoulder, down her smooth flank, to the swelling of her hip, and back again. When sleep finally came his dreams made no sense to him.
When he woke up she had already left for work. He could still smell her in the bed and if he closed his eyes he could imagine she was still there next to him. A part of him wished that she were still there while another part was glad that she was gone and couldnt spoil this moment he had to himself.
He closed his eyes and remembered the way the Saxophonist's lips felt soft and warm against his skin, and his cheekbone tingled with the memory of the kiss.
When he woke up she had already left for work. He could still smell her in the bed and if he closed his eyes he could imagine she was still there next to him. A part of him wished that she were still there while another part was glad that she was gone and couldnt spoil this moment he had to himself.
He closed his eyes and remembered the way the Saxophonist's lips felt soft and warm against his skin, and his cheekbone tingled with the memory of the kiss.
VIEW 11 of 11 COMMENTS
pyratwilly:
angst for the memories... nothing like a musician, and gods almighty, do I miss the musician... that beautiful musician who can play my body like a harp, or sometimes just let me play her like a quiet jazz song until we both fall asleep, sated and content for a time. Nice stuff.
thirty:
Violinist? Saxophonist? Maybe you have a thing for classical musicians?