coyotefeets
The bench was worn nearly through with the weight of all the people who had sat on it. Its wooden planks were scuffed, scarred from tiffs, fights, breakups, the force of human emotion.
It's cold now. It seems like it's raining all the time. Days come when I miss the summer like mad, but then I climb into bed and under my mass of blankets, and you're right there and it's like I'm warmer than I've ever been before.
They didn't like to fight. Fighting was silly; it was a colossal waste of time, energy, and emotion. Things they had precious little of. None to spare. No, fighting was useless.
Quiet. Everywhere. The air, the dirt, the water in his body, the marrow in his bones. All silent. Still. It was freaky. He dared not move a muscle for fear of breaking the spell. How long had he been still? Forever. Only a second. Three minutes, maybe. An eternity, tops.
Old pages. The scent of the ink, stamped into them. Heady. The feel of the paper between your fingers. Heavenly. Better than skin. Skin-on-skin. Skin-on-paper.
Click! The shutter snapped closed, so fast, hundredths of a second, but it captured so much in so little time. Belle stood next to Jon, smiling, looking wan but cheerful; Jon was hugging him tight round the shoulders, his long fingers cupping the brittle edge of bone, an anchor.
Coffee. A muffin. The steam is rising from the depths of the cup and I curl my hands around the base, warming them. Snow is drifting down outside the window, slowly, steadily barring my way back out into the real world.
Sitting in your office, legs crossed, or maybe feet up on the desk, knees overlapping. You're wearing that tie today, the cornflower blue one, and everything in me wants to reach out and tug it.
writing since 2012 · 9 entries · 9 days shown up
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the words Kris reaches for
skinsecondjonfingerspaperfightingemotionceilingssoaredvaultingoverheadrooftopwhitesteeplejuttedsky