Post by savannah rae wilde on Aug 13, 2012 18:58:18 GMT -5
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| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://i919.photobucket.com/albums/ad32/paperheartx_x/bg.png); width: 388px; padding-top: 20px; padding-bottom: 20px;] [style=text-align: justify; align: center; padding: 10 10 10 10px; line-height: 90%; font-size: 10px; font-family:arial;overflow: auto; width: 330; height: 280; background-color: e5e5e5; opacity: .9; border-left: 10px solid #ac9692;] it's about security, amidst anything else. it's about trusting (more than anything in the world) that the same hand that could knock you down with a flick of the wrist will never trace your skin with anything but care and caution. it is about always wanting more, and never wanting less, and the alarming stability of these things in your mind. you've lived here physically - had a house and resided there, which you've also done thousands upon thousands of miles away in france. but you've finally discovered home here, with the whisper of his lips and the way his jaw feels and being wanted. and the moment of suspension each time - each time you experience the ecstasy of falling in love all over again. but it is more beautiful, because your nervous soul can settle into this niche more comfortably than it did the last occasion, until this story is woven into your satiny heart. there is the clashing harmony of adrenaline and tranquility in the cool dark as his imagery toys with your senses (pressure inside your palm, a breath stroking your neck, the plucking of heartstrings [ drums ], a brush of his eyelashes; you smell rain and sandalwood and lemongrass). you will never admit it, but this is your favorite, beautiful and slow, as if time is not so precious because it is abundant. why act in haste when you have eternity? your brain plays these tricks on you, but you are forgiving and indulgent. you are the cliche miracles: the blind man who sees, the dead man who walks, suspended luxuriously in the eye of the storm. for just these moments, you are not contemplating your profession or future or money - perhaps because despite the state of these things, you will have him. he does not become boring or expensive or jeopardized - rather, sustained in brilliance. tomorrow might be different, but the comfort of this moment is a mother's crooning tendencies and the lapse of lucidity during sleep. addiction - it is helpless return to something because the feeling it brings you is divine and unmatched. you feel as if your wandering fingers can feel every print, every shift of muscle beneath the skin of his stomach, as if every fiber of him is so clear to you. surely he feels the same, as his lips and fingers so swiftly and nonchalantly find the spots that bring the quickened breathing. you pause; it is even and relaxed, your lips at his ear, then the delicate patch of skin just below. you are called to say something - something specific, that you've felt tension in before. but it's not wasted words this time; it ceases to be the meaningless penny at the bottom of a well and morphs to a truth well served. your shiver is delicious. "i love you." it breaks the quiet gracefully, accented with breathy relief. it remains quiet, in the most merciful way possible. his mouth is at your throat now, and you give the smallest of smiles. you are not in a house. you are home. |
