Status: One-Shot
Caress.
Caress.
It’s quiet in the dim light of your basement room where we sit holding hands. Just soft breathing and the slow, synced beating of hearts. Inhale. Ka-Thump. Ka-Thump. Exhale. The blood continues to rush against my ear drums. A contented sigh adds to the soothing sound.
I look down with a smile at our entwined fingers. Its different to see a piece of you so very near a piece of me. The chipping black paint on my nails contrasting brightly against the backdrop of you fair skin. Your guitarist hands, strong fingers, pink nails cut trim. The shadows of the room playing scenes along our linked arms.
When you lean against me I breath in your scent. Warm vanilla. The shampoo you used this morning. Cool mint from your breath brushing my face. Something citrus and spice. The incense you left burning last night, mingles with the right-before-it-rains scent of your cologne. The closer we get the stronger it seems and soon I’m inhaling the scent of detergent on your pressed button-up. So familiar and nostalgic and just like the jacket of yours left hanging in my closet.
Where we touch my skin tastes yours. It tingles like my mouth is full of pop-rocks. Then the aftershock is the feeling of warmth sent up my arm and through my veins to pool in my stomach . And this taste of you, that’s like drinking hot chocolate on a cold day, reminds my mouth of the flavor of you lips. The usual tang of toothpaste and ever so familiar taste of morning coffee and cigarettes. But always the unmistakable hint of you. It’s ineffable really .
Your hand around mine is warm, large, gentle like the rest of you. The pads of your fingers rub slow, small circles on the back of my hand. The calloused patches scratch softly against my tanned skin. I have them too. We both play. If I concentrate I can feel you pass over each criss-cross pattern adorning my knuckles. I return your touches with strokes of my thumb and silent smiles. So well known are your hands to me and with every caress I know more of you.
I look down with a smile at our entwined fingers. Its different to see a piece of you so very near a piece of me. The chipping black paint on my nails contrasting brightly against the backdrop of you fair skin. Your guitarist hands, strong fingers, pink nails cut trim. The shadows of the room playing scenes along our linked arms.
When you lean against me I breath in your scent. Warm vanilla. The shampoo you used this morning. Cool mint from your breath brushing my face. Something citrus and spice. The incense you left burning last night, mingles with the right-before-it-rains scent of your cologne. The closer we get the stronger it seems and soon I’m inhaling the scent of detergent on your pressed button-up. So familiar and nostalgic and just like the jacket of yours left hanging in my closet.
Where we touch my skin tastes yours. It tingles like my mouth is full of pop-rocks. Then the aftershock is the feeling of warmth sent up my arm and through my veins to pool in my stomach . And this taste of you, that’s like drinking hot chocolate on a cold day, reminds my mouth of the flavor of you lips. The usual tang of toothpaste and ever so familiar taste of morning coffee and cigarettes. But always the unmistakable hint of you. It’s ineffable really .
Your hand around mine is warm, large, gentle like the rest of you. The pads of your fingers rub slow, small circles on the back of my hand. The calloused patches scratch softly against my tanned skin. I have them too. We both play. If I concentrate I can feel you pass over each criss-cross pattern adorning my knuckles. I return your touches with strokes of my thumb and silent smiles. So well known are your hands to me and with every caress I know more of you.
♠ ♠ ♠
Thanx, readers!