Fazzi and the Pink Balloon
raindrops keep falling on my head
Soft, shy smiles and wide brown eyes. Kissing lazily, oh so slowly in dark night’s midst.
Smells of coffee, familiarity, and warmth—the kind you get from a mother’s goodbye hug to her son on the school bus for the first day. The kind you get from a lover’s touch.
Coffee—it’s the only way his brain can remain in hyper drive long enough to write, he claims. Lies, lies. The only thing he needs is Matt’s breath on his neck, his hands roaming roaming, Matt’s smile pressed into his shoulder. Quiet yawns and Sunday morning sunlight wriggles through the blinds, hitting wooden tables and illuminating vivid smirks that mask all the secrets of the world, and a healthy appetite for love. It’s all here, here moving and teasing in the corners of kisses and a blue that shades the day’s failures.
It’s in the hue of the music that plays in silence. Where sneaky eyes are much bigger men than “Come here”, and where they will always have the last word.
Eyes are the gateway to the soul, and touches are the backdoor. A hand drags sensuously across his chest, and blues flicker uncertainly.
“You have a long flight to San Jose,” Matt kisses him deeply, not letting go. Wanting to keep him here forever. There’s not enough.
“I have time.” Fazzi moves his hand to Matt’s lower stomach. There’s a wicked smile in place.
There’s enough time.
Smells of coffee, familiarity, and warmth—the kind you get from a mother’s goodbye hug to her son on the school bus for the first day. The kind you get from a lover’s touch.
Coffee—it’s the only way his brain can remain in hyper drive long enough to write, he claims. Lies, lies. The only thing he needs is Matt’s breath on his neck, his hands roaming roaming, Matt’s smile pressed into his shoulder. Quiet yawns and Sunday morning sunlight wriggles through the blinds, hitting wooden tables and illuminating vivid smirks that mask all the secrets of the world, and a healthy appetite for love. It’s all here, here moving and teasing in the corners of kisses and a blue that shades the day’s failures.
It’s in the hue of the music that plays in silence. Where sneaky eyes are much bigger men than “Come here”, and where they will always have the last word.
Eyes are the gateway to the soul, and touches are the backdoor. A hand drags sensuously across his chest, and blues flicker uncertainly.
“You have a long flight to San Jose,” Matt kisses him deeply, not letting go. Wanting to keep him here forever. There’s not enough.
“I have time.” Fazzi moves his hand to Matt’s lower stomach. There’s a wicked smile in place.
There’s enough time.
♠ ♠ ♠
:)