#5 (125 words)
She bends to him, to his words that press themselves into her ears- the folds of which quiver at their soft heat. They are nice words. They do his dirty work.
She and he, they walk in the mist. It is night. The dim orange light of the street lamps make her look ugly. Their hands are clasped. A bubble of heat is trapped between their palms. That space separating them, between their palms, steals her thoughts, melts them, thick wet glowing.
And this is all she needs, the slim hot spaces betwixt, the almost, the sip, the whetting.
They walk and fall silent. They part at the corner with no other affection than releasing their hands, heat from between them lost in the cold.
taste (Copyright 2008 beezies)
02.29.08
Bittersweet. Love is such confusion of desire and need.
WC
It is that, especially when it is new.
Then it is easy to feel so unsure.
Thank you, WriterChick.