I have slipped under your covers and felt your arms. I have held your breath in my mouth, smiling curling my lips in the red color that is stained with the sin of our passion. Your heat held me in your bed and put me in a state of relaxation.
When you put your weight on me, my voice shattered your glass windows and blew out the sheets working as curtains. I felt you in my body and my mind through the way of your movements. You freed me to scream for one night. No neighbor, roommate, or mother to overhear. The only breaths important were our own; seeping into the night together.
The crisp pop of your What?! In the world after an astounding message of renaissance and dependance dances in front of your eyes; your spirit over-joying while your blood boils you down. There is nothing but that clear divisive break in the silence of watching that captures my heart more. Your voice broken over your lips and your eyes, tired and sore.
Practically lips to brick, trying to forget your heartbeat and your rhythm, I lay my head against the red course stone to scrub my mind clear and cold; you can’t hurt what you can't feel. I wish you could scrub a tablet clean with the willpower of a passion unrequited but alas you cannot. There is nothing we could do to unravel our intertwined strings of fate. Yet mine stay forever frayed as the moment passed me by faster than a whisper in the wind.
About the Creator
Ruth Ann
A Jersey girl just looking to tell some stories.
making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after I’ve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I don’t know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I haven’t felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads “Dinner at mine @ 8PM, don’t bring anything” and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friends’ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskarabout 5 hours ago in Feast
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