mikael_elric @ 2008-04-21T00: 47:00
We often remain tangled. A little 'as the hair in the morning - the day before if they were sprinkled with pounds and pounds of foam, but not so good to smell nice day. A little 'as the threads of the sweater the bracelet - that gift, that item now consumed, that little plot that was his first and now yours, and still seems to carry his smell, his warmth, his light on your arm. A little 'how many times your fingers crossed they can find in the dark, without even seek to mute voices, without a mistake - like the lips, three in the morning, black ingrombante the room (she and her vice to lower the blinds, as if the pitch of the night gave the discomfort to the eyes - but what is not important) know perfectly well how to meet - will be used to it, or magnetizing force that takes you to always have his heat against.
you remained muddled. Bad.
But you like. Oh, if you like.
's so reassuring to feel a little thread of red wool in a huge ball of pink candy. Sure, a little 'out of your habitat, but you know you are surrounded, and you like.
His warmth gives you security - her belly always, always, always hot, her skin so smooth by surprise every time he touched it, her sweetness so boundless that you wonder Wao, because she's with me?
tangled, knotted at her now, like two small wires, which node will never be dissolved. Never ever ever ever.
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