writers block
The first thing that comes to mind is the smell of her. It was almost sweet yet there was that carnal scent to her, that smell of living flesh. Her clothes smelled of Nagchampa, pot, menthol cigarettes, and that royal violets perfume from the dollar store I bought her for our 1st anniversary.
And oh the way she felt against me. The softness of her hair against my chest, her fingertips ticklish, her toes always cold, her skin and her lips, her wetness. Everything about her feel was languid and sheer.
She tasted like the cool meat of an apple, her lips were rose petals, and her breasts were quivering fruits.
This woman was mine, around whose body I would encircle my frail arms to keep at night, and I was in turn hers and we lived in a timeless place where nothing could touch us, where we could always read fairytales before bedtime, and make love all afternoon. Here we stayed safe from all worlds and loved each other.
If you could only see her with my eyes, the grandeur of her pastel greens, the slender of her fingers, the curves of her hips and her breasts. You would be lost in her as I was for so long.