(no subject)
ph. Camille Akrans
He was on her fingertips, dancing to the sonata of her hum, while her long black lashes fanned a small breeze his way. He'd hide like a hunter in the long strands of her hair, wild and tangled like African grass, and he'd braid them carefully, tucking the newly fashioned rope behind her ear and allowing it to cascade down to her shoulders. He would cling his body to the bridge of her nose, like it was the last thing on earth, and watch as the corners of her lips twitched upward in a dream induced smile.
And he'd think about how he could sit on top of the bottom one, or lay himself between those soft pink pillows and gently fall asleep. But when morning came, and the sun leaked through the lacy curtain, he'd leave as quiet as a mouse, back to his frozen pose on the music box.