Inspired story about love.
Inspired by Viggo Mortinson
They are neither gnarled nor perfect.
Clutching at the cup of too-hot coffee firmly in his grip.
Love! He says; and this time it's the real deal.
He wants to savor it. A slow sip of the headiest sort of wine.
Out lunch date was for Sunday, 'catch up.' on all the time we've missed. A long meeting in a nice restaurant, savoring our time. It was my idea.
It's Thursday now, and I'm on my lunch break. Having a meal, four days late, and it seems like I'm dining with my Death.
I never knew he could fall in love.
His hands are neither young nor old.
Rubbing his thumbs together almost nervously. As if he's afraid of what i might say, or maybe hoping I'll say anything at all.
He talking again.
He's talking about her. The woman he's in love with. As I've heard, this must be the fifth time he's talked about her eyes, of all things.
His hands are neither large nor small.
He doesn't want to over think it. So Surely he wouldn't want me analyzing it. Taking apart piece by piece, this woman I've never met.
No, he doesn't want to rush it, comparing it to other times with other lovers.
I can almost feel how warm the wind is for him.
Chocolate on his tongue melting just a bit sweeter in these dew-drenched days.
His hands are neither soft nor rough.
Now smoothing the polished wood of our deli table, as if caressing his new lovers flesh.
He purses his lips as he thinks about kissing her. Her lips would be soft, and always smiling. Her arms would always be open for him.
On my way back to four walls and a stiff-backed chair, it starts to rain.
He'd had an umbrella with him, I remembered, but he always used to forget to check the weather...
Thunder cracks but I'm still lost, my body navigating for me.
Pondering love
Pondering sweetness
Pondering Thursday
Pondering words
Pondering thought,
But all the while, I'm thinking of his hands.