Hold Tight (original writing piece)
So I was bored. Casually creative writing, and it got a bit moody. Sorry about that.
Hold Tight
She’s holding your hand. The face not so vivid at this moment, not quite fitting in the picture; like the space above the sky and the decrepit, twisting tendrils pushing flower after flower toward wandering eyes. You wonder where the root of this dream began.
Skin is warm. Dry, perhaps. The fingers don’t quite fit right, pulling and slacking alternately. You don’t know each other’s rhythms. You don’t even know her name. Or was it Helena? Delectable, syllables rolling particles from the tongue. Heat slaps back and forth; the wave of your memory.
Stones glitter. A star studded pavement. Or maybe its day? Stones dull, then. Pavement thwacking and clacking with busy feet. Children swing on the winds breast. Hair flickers, flame- absorbing heat.
Cream skin, this time. Dark eyes that flash when she turns her head just so. Pink lips. Dry. Chapped. They part for me. Long hair whips and bolts the same shade as those tendrils long forgotten underground.
I will not forget.
Laughing, drawing the curve of her neck. Material hangs one skin to another. She grabs your waist; you sigh. Feel the dip and twist of love and loves embrace, with all the dramas and pains of reality. Cool skin snakes yours as the day grows dark. Goodnight, my love. Dates and days and promises and passion weave till you are old and watching your children pick their own first stitch.
Still your hand swings unaccompanied. And while she may hold it, she grasps only in your mind.
Hold Tight
She’s holding your hand. The face not so vivid at this moment, not quite fitting in the picture; like the space above the sky and the decrepit, twisting tendrils pushing flower after flower toward wandering eyes. You wonder where the root of this dream began.
Skin is warm. Dry, perhaps. The fingers don’t quite fit right, pulling and slacking alternately. You don’t know each other’s rhythms. You don’t even know her name. Or was it Helena? Delectable, syllables rolling particles from the tongue. Heat slaps back and forth; the wave of your memory.
Stones glitter. A star studded pavement. Or maybe its day? Stones dull, then. Pavement thwacking and clacking with busy feet. Children swing on the winds breast. Hair flickers, flame- absorbing heat.
Cream skin, this time. Dark eyes that flash when she turns her head just so. Pink lips. Dry. Chapped. They part for me. Long hair whips and bolts the same shade as those tendrils long forgotten underground.
I will not forget.
Laughing, drawing the curve of her neck. Material hangs one skin to another. She grabs your waist; you sigh. Feel the dip and twist of love and loves embrace, with all the dramas and pains of reality. Cool skin snakes yours as the day grows dark. Goodnight, my love. Dates and days and promises and passion weave till you are old and watching your children pick their own first stitch.
Still your hand swings unaccompanied. And while she may hold it, she grasps only in your mind.