Old leather jackets, cigarette smoke and something that dosen't have a name
A little something a wrote for Steve Strodder a.k.a Saul and C.S.Heart, happy beltane love.
Old leather jackets, cigarette smoke and something that dosen't have a name belongs to the following groups:
! Creative Writing & Poetry !, ! ♥♥♥Love Is (Join us!)♥♥♥ !, Melbourne & Victoria, Midnight Ramblers, The Red Writing Room, The Word Tree and You're AcceptedGently she folds herself onto the chair, the hot cup burning her hands as she grasps it, the scent of peppermint wafting from its rim.
The sound of a guitar floods the air, catching in the back of her throat just like little tears. Forgotten memories spill through her mind, painting themselves across her faded walls.
Figures with their hands embracing; the smell of old leather jackets, cigarette smoke and something else that doesn’t have a name; the feel of having her fingers gently kissed, one by one; the feeling of her heart swelling and beating just a little too fast as the butterflies danced around her stomach.
She remembered the way he’s growl, purr and hiss, how his breath would catch in the back of his throat as her fingers danced over his animalistic body.
She could almost taste the coffee, drunk second hand from his slightly parted lips.
Her mind races at the memory of his dizzying, intoxicatingly addictive smell.
She pulls the blanket closer, inhaling its sharp floral sent, trying in vain to wash away the memories.
Slowly she unfolds, swishing the last of her herbal tea around its mug.
She reaches for the ‘play’ Button and floods her apartment with the solitude of the blues.
People walk past, their eyes dance past her, just as they always have. Once again a cup burns her petit hands; her eyes half closed, listening to the world pass her by.
The coffee is not strong enough, it never is. The waiters scoff at her order, and she suspects, never quite giver her what she’s asked for. She brings it to her ruby red lips and drinks it anyway.
She closes her eyes just a little more, it’s like he is sitting opposite her, his gloriously lopsided smile splashing across the space between them.
And then she blinks and the memory of him dances away in clouds of butterflies. Once again, she sits alone.
She walks through the rooms in her apartment, swishing frills dance around her ankles until she lunges for a record. Clad in only a petticoat, she dances, eyes clasped shut, wondering the depths of each room one by one, till finally the music climaxes and arms encase her.
She breaths deep: cigarettes, old leather… and something that has no name.
Steve Strodder...
This takes my breath away every time i read it and I’m up to my third reading :)
happy beltane kitten
xx
Emraldae replied
you told me to do it myself, so i am :P
i love you baby, but your very unhelpful sometimes…
stop singing that song love.
bloorain
beautiful! I love you the way you use words to describe her feelings, her memories and her state of mind :)
Emraldae replied
Thank you :)
bellmusker
Ah, there’s nothing like the solitude of the blues….and inhaling your lover’s scent, held softly against your face. Beautifully caught here, I can’t stop smiling. A spell written for the light of beltaine is a magic spell indeed :-)
Emraldae replied
Thank you very much :) i grew up listaning to the blues, so I feel a connection to that type of music.. I am glad this could make you smile.
thank you once again for your kind words
gretchen .
what perfect writing… makes me want to grab the nearest petticoat and start dancing… so lovely most beautiful emraldae. xox
Emraldae replied
thank you very very much Gretchen :) i understand what you mean about it making you want to dance, the first time i read it out loud, it had the same effect on me.
although, if you dont have a petticoat near by, any skirt could be used :D