he was, she was.

he was.

he was soft, light brown hair that danced at the top of his collar. the brim of a hat off which stripes of moonbeam bounced and richocheted against street lamps and car hoods. he was strong and sleek; he was purpose. he was all devilish grins and drumsticks, a car that moved as fast as he did — hard, with intention. he was a head thrown back, moan tripping over teeth, a gentle seething.

he was. hands.

– hands that knew exactly how to touch her, where all the secrets lie. those hands could bring her from the benign sentence to the exhilarated gasp in the time it takes to blink a set of eyelashes. the hands that possessed the power of healing; she depended on the accuracy and miraculousness of those hands. the hands that helped to put back together, piece by piece, one of the people she loved most in the world. the life in the hands; it made her dizzy, made her ache and moisten.

she was.

she was long hair and willowy limbs, hurt inside, carrying burden. she felt her thigh muscles pull themselves taut when she was first alone with him; every nerve ending was singing a chorus of need. he was exactly what she wanted then. she would remember his caress for weeks after the fact; his breath on her neck, feeling him smile against her breast. her back would arch and her fingers would twist in the sheets as she would bring herself back to that moment.

with him, she felt like poetry.

he was, she was.

Jennifer Summer

Fort Thomas, United States

  • Artist
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