drabble
i write, therefore i am? from here.
Days like this are waiting for a daydream of warm sun and a slight breeze, the crackle of sunburned, browning grass under a foot that drops off the hammock every few minutes to start the swaying all over again, the creak of the bolts with every first push off that makes her fear for her safety, but not enough to move. The memory of long legs and the wet, sweaty stickiness of a shirt on the small of her back. Praying for the feeling of a book in her hand that she wants to read, the spine already wrinkled from much loving, the pages spotted with thumbprints and highlighter exclamation points - “Exactly!” Days like this are meant for the hope of feeling nothing until summer returns to bring the warmth back again.
He’s swaying to the breeze, book propped up on his chest, converse stashed on the ground underneath him so that if he falls asleep and rolls out, he’ll end up faceplanting in Chuck Taylor’s. She could watch him for days, brown hair, blue eyes, thick fingers over the already bent cover of that library book, half-smirk whenever he reads something amusing. She thinks about joining in, the book pulled out of his hand and replaced by slender fingers, a pair of flipflops left next to the chucks, a full-fledged smile whenever he looked at those long legs and button nose. But she thinks better of it and watches from a distance, now, trying not to wish for the hammock to break and dump him unceremoniously on his ass when there are sparkly pink flats next to the chucks and short legs tangled up with his.
After all, there are always other boys, and she can make them like her.
Days like this are waiting for a daydream of warm sun and a slight breeze, the crackle of sunburned, browning grass under a foot that drops off the hammock every few minutes to start the swaying all over again, the creak of the bolts with every first push off that makes her fear for her safety, but not enough to move. The memory of long legs and the wet, sweaty stickiness of a shirt on the small of her back. Praying for the feeling of a book in her hand that she wants to read, the spine already wrinkled from much loving, the pages spotted with thumbprints and highlighter exclamation points - “Exactly!” Days like this are meant for the hope of feeling nothing until summer returns to bring the warmth back again.
He’s swaying to the breeze, book propped up on his chest, converse stashed on the ground underneath him so that if he falls asleep and rolls out, he’ll end up faceplanting in Chuck Taylor’s. She could watch him for days, brown hair, blue eyes, thick fingers over the already bent cover of that library book, half-smirk whenever he reads something amusing. She thinks about joining in, the book pulled out of his hand and replaced by slender fingers, a pair of flipflops left next to the chucks, a full-fledged smile whenever he looked at those long legs and button nose. But she thinks better of it and watches from a distance, now, trying not to wish for the hammock to break and dump him unceremoniously on his ass when there are sparkly pink flats next to the chucks and short legs tangled up with his.
After all, there are always other boys, and she can make them like her.