Under my hands here is a dreamer. I see her, right now, in my flesh. She laughs. I laugh harder, and thus, she laughs even harder, and looks at me with a glimmer in those nymph-wise eyes, challenging me, and at this I bury my head in the crook of her neck, and feel her collarbones on my cheek, and the growing steadiness of her breathing, my chest against her chest, her perfume tickling my self
my chest on your chest
control. She starts to laugh again, and gazes up at me in her aura of summer and evergreen trees, looks at me and my cloak of strawberry blonde hair, and I get lost in the blush of her clover-green eyes, while she's covered in clovers, in stars, in lilies, in a paleness deeper than death but more vibrant than dawn. And then she comes up at me, real close, enough to count her freckles and the number of eyelashes on those blossoming eyelids. She smells like summer, and wet soil, and fire burning, and she turns around, still laughing in the pool of caramel-light oozing from the only lamp lit in the room. Her breath that disperses on my back tickles my guilt-ridden conscious, she knows it, I know she knows it, as I play with the strands of her fiery red hair, an ethereal river of rubies that climbs out of her back onto my pallid fingers, she knows it. It melts into my hands and I want to tangle myself into that hair and succumb to the haze of her aroma, so I place my lips into her neck. She tenses, then relaxes, and laughs again. But I relentlessly move up to that blessed curve of her swan-like neck, while I try to hush out the voices in my head, my breathing against that ebullient skin, her ochroid hair buried in my breast. And she shivers, and breathes harder, and turns around again
Those eyes
to look at my with a dreamy demeanor upon her face. The booze made the effect, that's for sure. But I've seen this scene before. I've already seen her lusty eyes and reddened cheeks and puffy lips looking up at me. I've already felt those strawberry lips against mine. When she needed my help. When she was scared, of loosing her virginity to her boyfriend. When she was terrified of life, and clung to my openness, to my extroversion and lack of shame. It was like that. You've got to start with something. And as I smelled the vodka on her breath, and felt her hands creep closer through my legs, I knew I was being used. Used, to see how this side was. The side of no regrets, the side of animal-like challenge, of fear, of uncertainty. She would go back to his arms and I would go to other arms as well. But just for this time, we were being used. And I guess, the booze, the light, the scent, the laughter...it made it okay.POSTED BY little girl blue ON Saturday, March 2, 2013 @ 11:53 AM
