onlysweetpea
Bluelighter
Exhibit A:
An email in which I give away the ending to the movie, it seems.
From: "J"
Subject: RE: Morning (happy thoughts)
To: ""([email protected])
Your hands.
Hands speak days without words.
In my mind's eye, I know that there is a brain and there are thousands upon thousands of conductors sending messages through the nerves, like veins, like blood knowing which direction it should flow, given direction from the heart. Your hands, somehow reading me, like I'm embossed with braille, seeming to know where to go without much direction at all and whatever thought is in my head at the moment, somehow slips down and out through my toes and I can't quite remember my own name.
Your mouth.
Lips and hot breath on the back of my neck, like a traveling smoke wrapping around me, curling down the length of me, bending at the soft skin on the inside of my knees making them slack.
Your eyes.
They follow the hands like two witnesses, like documentation filing pictures for later memories. They shine and they sparkle in different ways.
One, when you looked pleased. Two, when you looked surprised.
The feel of you is something that lingers after you leave, like some sort of apparition.
There are so many things to like about you...
****
This is an example of the saying "wearing your heart on your sleeve" .
It's not a bad thing. It's not always particularly good.
But it's great to be honest.
Exhibit B:
An email in which I state the obvious
From: "J"
Subject: RE: Morning (happy thoughts)
To: ""([email protected])
It's nice to want.
It's wonderful to be wanted.
And it's divine to have both.
***
Oh how it is. If only. Maybe. Briefly.
An email in which I give away the ending to the movie, it seems.
From: "J"
Subject: RE: Morning (happy thoughts)
To: ""([email protected])
Your hands.
Hands speak days without words.
In my mind's eye, I know that there is a brain and there are thousands upon thousands of conductors sending messages through the nerves, like veins, like blood knowing which direction it should flow, given direction from the heart. Your hands, somehow reading me, like I'm embossed with braille, seeming to know where to go without much direction at all and whatever thought is in my head at the moment, somehow slips down and out through my toes and I can't quite remember my own name.
Your mouth.
Lips and hot breath on the back of my neck, like a traveling smoke wrapping around me, curling down the length of me, bending at the soft skin on the inside of my knees making them slack.
Your eyes.
They follow the hands like two witnesses, like documentation filing pictures for later memories. They shine and they sparkle in different ways.
One, when you looked pleased. Two, when you looked surprised.
The feel of you is something that lingers after you leave, like some sort of apparition.
There are so many things to like about you...
****
This is an example of the saying "wearing your heart on your sleeve" .
It's not a bad thing. It's not always particularly good.
But it's great to be honest.
Exhibit B:
An email in which I state the obvious
From: "J"
Subject: RE: Morning (happy thoughts)
To: ""([email protected])
It's nice to want.
It's wonderful to be wanted.
And it's divine to have both.
***
Oh how it is. If only. Maybe. Briefly.
