ninety-five : made of smoke
I exhale, and he speaks slowly. Low. Almost under his breath. I feel the warmth of it on my neck. His lips are bristling-close. I stare straight up. Smoke curls around itself, through itself, moving in circles to the ceiling. The harder I try to see it, the more it dissolves, swallowed by the air. He is speaking, still. Theres an urgency in his voice, though it is quiet, and his hands tell me what it means. Ash falls on the sheets and we move like smoke.
Tonight I wrote while listening to Led Zeppelin. This was longer, but it was a little too much of a sex-fantasy-related filth-fest. I nearly posted it but got embarrassed and deleted what I will refer to as ‘all the good parts’. I don’t quite know why Led Zeppelin has this effect on me. Sorry. Will try to write something good next time.
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acircadianrhythm posted this
