v u l v a l i c i o u s
a way with words
I have been following you for a while now, getting closer by the day. Watching you pass the time through my window, leaning out to see you turn the corner. I understand now what she meant about you, how even when she was done being in love with you (infatuated, maybe), she still felt held, tethered, captivated.
You're captivating, yes. The way you turn a phrase, twist it around your wrist and let one end dangle in front of me, a rope that yes, you do know how to use.
Sexually taut. That's what I keep wanting to say. It's not tension, not that manufactured feeling of will-they-or-won't-they that usually plagues this kind of writing. It's a tautness, that rope pulled as tight as it will go. Then tighter. I can feel it in my chest, my heart beats faster when I think of what you can do.
And it's a game, yes. It's choosing the right image and the right font, the tight leather glove around your words. The slow movement of your finger across that rope, black on black on top of this dark scene. Freud and blood and wings and the weight of hand on arm.
I think about it now, even when I am not reading. Not looking. I can't help it. You've got a way with words.