I like his voice, always have. Deep, scratching pleasantly the silent fibers in the air, suggesting that the possible whispers under the silk sheets won’t be a waste. I feel the need to explore his mind, but for some reason I only have access to a tiny part of his thoughts, even though he clearly still likes being around me.
He touched my hand for a first time the other day, no, there were other times, many times actually, but this is the first time I notice again how his darker skin goes against my pale color and attracts the attention of my eyes painfully, longing for a second more.
I panicked, I didn’t expect to find chemistry in a single ‘hello’ gesture. I thought I’ve drowned it all, only in theory, as it seems. I left early with the lame excuse that I forgot the blinds at home open and with the storm coming I didn’t want to find any broken windows, but in fact, the only broken in this case was the door to my inside peace. I didn’t finish the glass of red wine and I skipped half of the things I wanted to tell him, I just ran and part of my heart is probably still running, confused and guilty.
He could be my muse, he was once … But it’s wrong, because he is now somebody else’s muse, and it aches to burn with desire, it hurts that I can only use metaphors and long-distance synonyms to set on fire the rain of thoughts…
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