v u l v a l i c i o u s
How she would taste if I could kiss her, though I know I cannot or will not
Time has been getting away from me the way that time often does. Slip slip slip.
I woke up last night and felt like I had been asleep forever; it was dark, and I had only been in bed for half an hour. The banging pots and pans stayed in my brain, and I felt unsettled, like I didn't have any control over my surroundings or my sleep.
I want her more every day, even as I do not want her at all. She'll smile through me and I'll let her, and then I'll stumble into my room and wonder how I really feel about her.
Walking to the train, I thought (again and then again) of how she would feel under my hands. Soft? Warm? Tense? The word that comes to mind, most often, is melt. She is ice, but only in the most perfect ways: tenuously existing in a state of frozen coldness, almost asking for heat so she can return to fluidity; sliding down back and neck on a hot night, giving way as she inches slowly, leaving you with nothing in your hands but the memory of her on the small of your back.
But would she taste like ice? I can still remember the taste of the other grrls I've kissed, this one warm yet sweet, that one basking in the glow of a cigarette. She would taste like clean and coffee, or the smell of leaves freshly fallen. She would taste faintly bittersweet, a biting flavor on my tongue.
In short, she would taste good. Right about now.
Cunt flavored lip gloss. Revel in the joy of that.