It's all been done before, twice. And then again, ironically.
(All her life was leading up to this. She has never been so found. Never felt this belonging that nestles in her stomach and warms her all over. If she could, she would explode into a million fireflies and scatter around the room, bouncing from one green wall to the other. No, she would melt into water and seep into his skin, bringing life to every cell he has tucked away from sight.)
In her mind she keeps the image of perfect love. Laughter. White sheets. Blurs of silhouettes. Orange tinted movement. Hard/Soft. Friends, she thinks, first and foremost friends. She constructs a smooth flow to lovers then, she figures it will always have been there, hidden in their bones and neurons, in whatever makes their skin tingle when they touch.
In her mind she keeps the image of perfect love. Laughter. White sheets. Blurs of silhouettes. Orange tinted movement. Hard/Soft. Friends, she thinks, first and foremost friends. She constructs a smooth flow to lovers then, she figures it will always have been there, hidden in their bones and neurons, in whatever makes their skin tingle when they touch.