3:04 A.M.
It wasn't soft.
But it wasn't rough either. Well worked with years of experience but still taken care of. A part of the instrument that created an audible incision into human emotion. Delicate. A torturous reminder of what was no longer available to the senses. It moved, sliding along scarred terrain pooled with liquid color in tiny crevices etched on the surface like an oil painting. Feathery over chiseled range, like a gentle breeze swaying grains of sand across tiny desert waves. Fingertips dip gently into my exposed collar, tracing the protruding bones so lightly that it barely exists. Chest rising and falling in calm slumber, almost forcing a stronger contact between flesh familiar with one another as breath drew up closer to the lingering touch. Smoothing gently upwards over the fine contours of an inked neck, tracing diligent lines over the dark stains scribbling a forsaken word against my body.
I didn't need vision to know who is there. My voice was hardly a whisper in the darkness indiscernible between deep night and my closed eye lids.
"Why are you here?"
There was no echo, just the rush of air that passed from my lips and into the chilled atmosphere. Warmth surrounded my body, bare on the laughable sheets of my own bed. Heat glided alongside my jaw line, rough with the growth of a long, pitiful day of self loathing. Inching too close not to feel a flutter in my heartbeat, I almost lose the air in my faithful lungs. A voice speaks too softly into the ear that struggles to hear, leaving only a muffled connotation to guess. I can remember the kinds of things he use to tell me. Sometimes, intentionally muffled to that left side. He was always too aware of others to merely forget. It makes me smile.
Hands slip into unnatural blonde, a resistant color dirtied to an almost orange hue. The mess being tarried with spidery fingers that moved through it with ease, an unintentional pull here and there. Weight lifted onto my body, breath washing across my cheeks, nose and that tiny slip of skin that sloped down into the upper lip. Wind is stuck heavy in my chest, eyes too frightened to open. Lips touch mine.
But my imagination is not that powerful.
The sudden start of air in my chest sends a rush of muffled sound into the room. I jolt upright and find it near pitch but for a few lingering streams of silver that slip through the windows and give the shadows of my bedroom character. An inked hand finds beads of cool sweat forming on my forehead, brushing away the oily sensation and with it, the rough blonde that clings. A heavy sigh attempts to regain a regular rhythm with my heart beat. I fall back against the well slept sheet, head pillowed onto a soft cushion that fluffs up on either end with a hiss. Bright blue numbers linger intensely to my right side- 3:04 A.M.
A soft curse coddles me into vain efforts.
But it wasn't rough either. Well worked with years of experience but still taken care of. A part of the instrument that created an audible incision into human emotion. Delicate. A torturous reminder of what was no longer available to the senses. It moved, sliding along scarred terrain pooled with liquid color in tiny crevices etched on the surface like an oil painting. Feathery over chiseled range, like a gentle breeze swaying grains of sand across tiny desert waves. Fingertips dip gently into my exposed collar, tracing the protruding bones so lightly that it barely exists. Chest rising and falling in calm slumber, almost forcing a stronger contact between flesh familiar with one another as breath drew up closer to the lingering touch. Smoothing gently upwards over the fine contours of an inked neck, tracing diligent lines over the dark stains scribbling a forsaken word against my body.
I didn't need vision to know who is there. My voice was hardly a whisper in the darkness indiscernible between deep night and my closed eye lids.
"Why are you here?"
There was no echo, just the rush of air that passed from my lips and into the chilled atmosphere. Warmth surrounded my body, bare on the laughable sheets of my own bed. Heat glided alongside my jaw line, rough with the growth of a long, pitiful day of self loathing. Inching too close not to feel a flutter in my heartbeat, I almost lose the air in my faithful lungs. A voice speaks too softly into the ear that struggles to hear, leaving only a muffled connotation to guess. I can remember the kinds of things he use to tell me. Sometimes, intentionally muffled to that left side. He was always too aware of others to merely forget. It makes me smile.
Hands slip into unnatural blonde, a resistant color dirtied to an almost orange hue. The mess being tarried with spidery fingers that moved through it with ease, an unintentional pull here and there. Weight lifted onto my body, breath washing across my cheeks, nose and that tiny slip of skin that sloped down into the upper lip. Wind is stuck heavy in my chest, eyes too frightened to open. Lips touch mine.
But my imagination is not that powerful.
The sudden start of air in my chest sends a rush of muffled sound into the room. I jolt upright and find it near pitch but for a few lingering streams of silver that slip through the windows and give the shadows of my bedroom character. An inked hand finds beads of cool sweat forming on my forehead, brushing away the oily sensation and with it, the rough blonde that clings. A heavy sigh attempts to regain a regular rhythm with my heart beat. I fall back against the well slept sheet, head pillowed onto a soft cushion that fluffs up on either end with a hiss. Bright blue numbers linger intensely to my right side- 3:04 A.M.
A soft curse coddles me into vain efforts.