thoughtentangled
he used to fall asleep to her arms around him, her fingers interlocked with his as they fell asleep to his steady snores and the silence of the hallway beyond their door. now he dreams of that feeling of being held, of being embraced, of her being there. now he only sees her in an unreachable world until she returns to his side.
"turn it up," you say as you stand up in the passenger seat. "turn it up, shake your head to the beat, loosen up a little, will you?" and so with one hand on the driver's wheel, we dance around to whatever sweet song comes from the stereo.
i want to walk around the world with a backpack in hand. but how i wish this backpack was bottom-less, going for forever, for one cannot fit a large jacket into a backpack. also, since when did backpacks know how to bottle the love and tragedy that i will see during my ventures? tell me how to pack emotions.
an elegant cupcake embroidered with pearls and multi-coloured sprinkles - oh how i feel simple, incomparable to you as you sit tall and proud on your napkin.
they are nothing like the pink razor burns - that fresh, raw skin - that men get when their fingers slip. instead, it is quite the opposite. they are hairs that have marked their territory upon a man's face - rather rudely, in fact, for they tickle a woman's soft fingertips when she traces them.