The night air is cool and I want to cry. My skin calls the shiver of a kiss, the warmth of my hips in your hands. I would. Anything.
Erotica makes my throat close and my eyes burn. The characters hate me. Hurt me.
Ripple through me in waves I’d rather not know existed.
Love stories don’t do anything for me. I couldn’t care less about their endless embrace under the stars. But when they take off their clothes in haste, to feel… I cry.
I cry the wet grass on my back. I cry the echo of my gasp of your whisper. I cry the leaves in my hair.
Twenty fingers locked.
Tu te surpasses ! “Twenty fingers locked”. Que d’images !
Ditto and also
the echo of my gasp of your whisper
Fantastic
Incredible, wonderful. Twenty Fingers Locked…..wow. I love your writing style.
Chris
My Blog
very moving. beautiful flow of words and images.
all of you, thank you thank you thank you 🙂
Famine
Féminine
Fulmine
Swan
This is amazing, and I love ..”I cry the wet grass on my back. I cry the echo of my gasp of your whisper. I cry the leaves in my hair.”
leigh: thank you 🙂
It is sad how the cruelty of one moment can taint a lifetime.
Such a cry sreaks the night with spreading moisture. Such pleasure is nerely painful, perhaps more so. Echoes are more real than the speech of people. What little we have to say, what a cosmos there is in what we feel. I am addicted to how you feel.