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– How about one last round ? Winner takes all.

His pleading voice, made her snap out of her wanderings. Maybe under other circumstances, she would’ve enjoyed teaching him a lesson. He was too young, and too smug for his own good. Not considering the amount of alcohol he was pouring down his throat the entire evening. And now, his obnoxiousness, was getting on her last nerve. She pushed the chair behind her, and stood straight, meeting his pouting lips with a neutral expression on her face.

– Maybe another time, Pomeroy. It’s getting late, and I have other meetings to attend to. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.

Her words were met with indignation and heavy silence; so unbothered by the barely veiled hostility of the other occupant of the table, her head bowed in a quick way of dismissal, excusing herself from the party.

She just wanted to take her earnings and to slip out unnoticed. Luckily, she had had a lifetime of experience being invisible. She lowered her head slightly; then headed to the exit; her steps getting lighter as she was distancing herself from the club, its rooms cloudy with smoke and whiskey breath of those who visited there.

The early morning air was rather chilly, and in attempt to gather some heat in her already tired bones, she pulled the jacket tighter around her body. Yet it wasn’t the weather that gave her a sense of unease. She wanted to shake her head, dismissing the feeling; she never felt safer then dressed as a man. But, she learned a long time a go, to trust her gut better than anything else. So she quickened her steps, ears pricked, focusing on the sounds around her. All she could hear, was the sound of her heartbeat, pounding hard against her ribcage. Maybe she was just being paranoid.

But as that thought entered her brain, her eyes registered the shadowing figure now towering over her, shoving its elbow into her ribs, knocking the air out of her lungs, making her stumble across the pavement. Steadying herself, she lunged forward, but a strong hand gripped the back of her coat, pulling her backwards. Her feet slipped from under her, her body hitting the ground with a loud thump. An electric shock like pain radiated through her head, a wave of dizziness clouding her view.

She felt herself being dragged onto the cold pavement, into the darkness of the alley, and she swallowed hard the panic rising in her throat. Images of Lucy’s smile, popped into her head, making her teeth clench so tight, the head pain forgotten for a moment. Her hand moved quickly to her pants pocket, gripping the small letter knife, she always carried around, just in case. She just needed to think for a second; while her assailant was busy carrying her body deeper into the alley.

By the size of his shoulders, and the power of his grip, she won’t stand a chance fighting against him. So she had to think smart, and quick. And hopeful, that he hadn’t figured out yet that she was a lady. Cuz, now, that will make this whole ordeal, even more dangerous for her. Of course, there was also the issue of the gun he had tucked in his waistband. Yes, she was clearly in over her head.

He dropped her legs against the pavement, and pushed her side with his muddy boots, before crunching himself against her thigh. She tried hard to stand still, while he eyed her jacket. She felt his callous hand, moving across her, and before he would unveil more than the bag of money she had in her right pocket, before her worst nightmare might come to life, she shoved the small knife with all the anger pilled in her chest, in his leg.

His raging scream filled the chilly air, as he staggered back, his pitch black eyes smoldering with unmasked anger. She jumped to her feet, ignoring the pounding in her head, hoping to gain some distance, before he’d come after her. Because he will, and he’d be the more angrier, and she wouldn’t let herself picture the outcome of this whole ordeal.

 The deafening crackle of a gunshot pierced through the buzzing in her ears, making her feet wobble, stumbling at the entrance of the alley. She felt a sting in her right arm, but she refused to stop.

She didn’t noticed the other figure entering the alley, until it was too late, and bumped into it, full force. Arms gripped her elbows, and she fought them off, eyes blurry, heart heavy in her chest, over the realization that she’ll never get the chance to say goodbye to Lucy. He grabbed her hands, twisting her arms behind, blocking her struggles to kick him.

– Will you stop fighting ? I mean you no harm.

That voice. Unmistaken. Warm. From a lifetime ago.

Her limbs went soft, her brain still in a haze. He turned her around, and as she blinked back the tears, his confused face registered before her eyes. His lips parted in shock, and disbelief. Her moustache was hanging lose around the corner of her upper lip, detail she failed to notice while struggling to regain her breath.

– Eve ?

Finally, for once, she managed to catch him off guard. A faint smile appeared on her lips, at the thought of this little victory.

– Thomas, I am going to faint now….

Concept: Donno Yet

The trouble with fake moustaches, as Eveline would come to learn, was that they had an annoying way of coming unstuck when the lady wearing the disguise happened to be perspiring. Especially when the lady in question would probably get hanged if caught, as she was currently committing at least 2 crimes in a crazy attempt to win her financial security back. And by the beads of sweat gathered on her upper lip, she’d figured there wasn’t much time left before her disguise would become undone. She smoothed down her moustache, praying that the adhesive paste held. She snuck a glance at the other occupant of the table.

By the crease between his brows, and the slight twitch of his pinky finger, he just figured he lost the game. She could’ve spared him the trouble 2 hands ago, but he insisted to win back some of his wagering. She really didn’t have time for this. She had more important matters to attend to.

Her eyes darted over the clock above the mantel in the far corner of the room. A quarter past four in the morning. Drat ! That was really late. She overstayed her welcome. Soon Miss Baldroy will be up, running her daily chores. If she’d get caught sneaking around the house, in no less than men’s clothing, at these hours in the morning, her carefully devised plan will simply fly out the window. And she wasn’t sure, she could come up with a good explanation for her appearance in the first place. Now, Miss Baldroy might be a tad slow, but she was far from stupid.

Eveline cleared her voice, a low growl escaping her throat.

– There is no point in stalling, Pomeroy.

He looked at her with glassy eyes, the furrow between his eyebrows deepening with every glance he took between the cards in his hands and her. She wanted to feel sorry for him. But as it was, he had money to lose and she didn’t. Not that she wanted his money. What she needed was something more valuable.

You always painted your toenails

Blue summer sky

Your swore they gave

An air of lightness

To those impatient legs

Reckless in their way

Never stuck in one place

For far too long.

Your dress was sunflower yellow

And it hugged all the curves

I wanted to touch

My lips anchored between your tighs

The smell of you

Like a sweet overdose

Eyes shining through incoherent thoughts

Your lips were the softest red

I wasn’t meant to touch

My heart was heavy

And you tasted like salvation

Selfish were my fingers

Tangled with yours.

Mood

I wish January knew how to be gentle, but instead it’s sharp and cold and if you listen carefully you’ll hear the ghosts scratching the walls of your throat making you bleed words you never knew existed before and if you close your eyes long enough you’ll see blue eyes wandering black skies looking for something more because you weren’t enough and I know you tried but it just doesn’t work that way and maybe your mother was right, some things were not meant to be and if you bite your tongue hard enough you’ll forget the taste of his name and I know you’re hoping February will be more tender but it’s just the month after January.

– Unknown

Armory

– Kid, don’t glorify me! I’m far from being a freaking hero. You cannot build a pedestal for a monster. See me for what I really am, and not for a lucky outcome to a goddamn tragedy.

She squinted at the girl’s reflexion in the mirror; in the dim light, her black eyes smoldering with unmasked anger. Blood was dripping of her hands, into the dirty sink, mixed with soap and water, forming a pink swirl washed down the drain into the questionable bathroom of a gas station. She had several cuts and bruises, that needed some mending, but nothing worse than her aggressor.

Her mind went back to that basement, with the wretched smell of despair and death. A quick shiver went up her spine, raising goosebumps all over her skin. The job turned into a unwelcomed mess due to the complication breathing behind her.

But then, her lips slowly curved into a faint smile, with the image of Number 53, soaking on the cardboard floor into a pool of his own blood, no longer able to hurt anybody.

Surely, he’d follow uninvited into her dreams for a while. But he’d eventually fade with a couples of sleepless nights and long hours training at the Armory. No drinking.

– I want to be like you…

The squeaky, trembling sound, pulled her out of the trail of thoughts, shifting her focus on drying her hands with the paper towel, she snatched from the shell beneath the mirror. She drew a long, exasperated breath, steadying herself.

– You can’t. And trust me sweetie, you’re better off without it.

– But I want to help…

The words came soft, almost unspoken, but stubborn in their release. She turned, facing the small bundle sitting on the floor; knees up, eyes bloodshot, a ragged teddy bear squished to her chest. She crossed her arms, back leaning into the sink. God, she was awful with kids.

– The best you can do, is try to bury the memories deep down, and move on. We’ll get you help, keep an eye on you till you’ll ease into a normal life. It will be hard at first, but you’ll find a way.

Her words were welcomed with silence. Nodding, she reached for the duffle bag sitting on top of the toilet; glanced one more time into the mirror, ready to put this day to rest. The little girl, fit her hand in hers, and made their way to the car. She turned the radio on, shifting trough radio stations, hoping she’ll find something to fill the space between them. As the car was entering the highway, the last words echoed inside for the rest of the trip, came from between trembling lips, but stubborn eyes.

– I’ll stay. You’ll see. I’ll stay.

Missed bullets

„no hay peor desgracia que extrañar lo que nunca pasó”

‎‎‎‎

He touched her shoulder softly, and she fought the urge to shrug it off.

– About last night… his voice was low, eyes questioning silently from under furrowed brows.

She glanced passed his right shoulder, swallowing hard, her lips turning into a reassuring smile.

– Nothing happened last night.

– But I remember…

Yeah, she remembered too. The hunger in his kiss, the rush for more, then his happy smile as he dossed off, whispering * Thank God, you came back *, arms surrounding her body.

But now, looking at his ex standing in the doorway, confused, she understood. It wasn’t her that he was glad to have back in his life. She was a mere replacement, in his drunken mind one night before.

– Nothing happened last night…

While she repeated the words, her eyes locked with his. As relief flooded his glare, her heart sunk heavy in her chest. Right, she thought. So foolish of her to ever think… Never mind what she thought. As she exhaled, fighting the tears back and the urge to scream her lungs out, she forced another smile and nodded slightly.

– I meant to tell you this last night. I’m leaving today. I have to go back.

His lips parted surprised, but before he could process her words; she removed his hand off her shoulder, and calmly continued.

– No need to worry about the payment. The next one will include the money for the rest of our agreement.

– That’s not…

– There’s a taxi downstairs with my name on it, she blurted out the words, without even blinking.

Leaning over , she planted a soft kiss on his cheek.

– Thanks for these past two months , she said with a faint smile. I’ll be out of your way now.

It was supposed to be a brushed joke, but her voice was shaky, and she hesitated for a second there, as though there was more to say. She finally nodded softly, and handed him the keys to the apartment. And without another word, she closed the door behind her, the only sound left between them, the echo of the luggage being carried down the staircases.

While the cab was racing down the streets on its way to the airport, blank stare, hands cold griping her backpack like a life jacket, she held back the pain stubbornly. There will be plenty of time to mourn her stupidity on the plane. A 16th hour flight will suffice. Then. No more.

Levels of anxiety

Breathe.

It’s 3 a.m. and your hands are shaking over the bathroom sink, blood and blood clots dripping from your mouth, staining the spotless white ceramic, you scrubbed a day before.

Tears roll down pale cheeks; knees wobbly because you haven’t slept in almost 24 hours.

Breathe.

You’re phone screen it’s awfully blurry; trembling fingers dial more than 5 numbers, but none of them go trough.

„Sorry the person you are trying to reach is not available at this time.”

You’re all alone; anxiety fills your lungs, and you forget to function.

Breathe.

It’s 11 a.m. on a Thursday. You’re behind the steering wheel. The instructor barks at you in frustration because your engine died again in the middle of the road. Its only your 4th session, and even though you’re trying really hard to not let fear overflow your insides, to him it doesn’t seem to matter.

Breathe.

The sun, prickles your eyes; and while you’re listening to him; it dawns on you that maybe you’re just not cut for this. So you sit there, nodding softly, trying to figure out how you’re gonna make it. You swallow hard, hoping that the panic attack rising in the back of you throat will go away.

Breathe.

The clock strikes 1 a.m. Freshly showered, cozy polka dots pjs, on your way to bed. You stop in front of the door. It’s really nothing. Just the usual „I hope I didn’t forgot to lock the door check-up”. The door knob squeaks lightly under the weight of your palm.

Breathe.

The sound reaches your ears, and your heart slams hard against your ribcage.

But the door doesn’t budge.

You take a step back, eyes closed, ears tilted back, almost waiting for an answer to the worst scenarios rolling behind your eyelids.

You count backwards, and by the time you get to one, there’s a sight escaping your lips, relief pouring through you. Your jawbone relaxes, and you’re almost ready to call it a day.

Breathe.

It’s almost Friday. You’ve gone through another week barely surviving. But you survived nonetheless.

Breathe.

Maybe one day, things will get easier. And you won’t flinch with every step you take, always waiting for the worst outcome.

Breathe.

Tomorrow it will be sunny, and that’s the most you can get excited about right now.

Breathe.

– Ești treaz?

Ma gândeam dacă ziua ta a fost la fel de lipsita de aer ca a mea. Și-as fi vrut să-ți scriu.

Ma mâncau degetele de nerăbdare să-ți povestesc despre coșmarurile de azi-noapte. Te-am visat. Acasă. Eram acolo zâmbind ca o idioata pentru ca mana ta o ținea strâns pe a mea. Si-as fi putut jura ca pașii mei erau mai ușori și plini de vise.

M-am trezit cu lipsa de tine în suflet și s-a pătat perna de tristețe.

Azi a fost una din zilele alea rare când m-am iubit cu raza de soare. Ne-am învârtit și învârtit cu rasul în timpane, și zâmbetul mi s-a extins pentru un moment în inima și mi-am dorit sa rămân acolo. Sa nu mai crestem…

Te-am așteptat în stație ca în fiecare zi din ultimii 4 ani. Am tresărit la fiecare umbra care a pășit în lumina lui Noiembrie pe picior grăbit. Mi s-au încâlcit gândurile de toate cuvintele pe care urma sa ți le asez în cale.

Sunt ochi mai triști decât ai mei la fiecare colt de stație. Poate și ei așteaptă…

Poate nu cu atata foamete ca mine.

Te-am așteptat și azi.

Azi mi-aș fi dorit sa-ți fi zâmbit.

Poate data viitoare?

For the Sleepless

Designed by ThatsOriginal

– Look honey, we don’t got that here.

The redhead lady was measuring her up from head to… Well whatever she could see past the counter, in the dim light inside the store. Her nails were taping impatient against the keyboard, and under half moon glasses, green eyes were lit with annoyance.

– You have to look again. Al said, go on 5th Street, past the fancy restaurants, look for the Purple star, they’ll have what you’re looking for. You’re store is literally called the Purple Star.

She looked around the room. There were dusty antiques everywhere. She would bet her last 100$ that nobody would even step a foot into this dump, with all the fancy places around it. If it wasn’t for the big ass sign outside, this could be easily missed.

– Look honey, I don’t know who Al is. But we don’t got that here.

She pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers, anticipating a migrene. It was past midnight. She was cold and hungry and to the bone tired. She’d be running into dead ends for the past 2 days, empty stomach, no sleep and mostly with little faith to hang on too.

Maybe she ought given up after the first year past, but she hated this world so much, and just wanted to go back home. Here there were no sunny days. No warmth. No hot chocolate with sprinkles on top and goodnight kisses to keep the nightmares away.

She shook her head and with a faint sight, stepped outside. The ring of the doorbell was the only noise accompanying her on the sidewalk, into the cold air. Her lungs demanded a much needed breath of fresh air, but the smell of this world was all kinds of wrong.

When she felt trough the rabbit hole, laughing echoing in her ears, she’d thought for sure it was a silly dream and on the other side, Mammie would catch her, like she did so many times before. But this time the hole grew longer, darkness lingering on every turn, and when she finally landed, it wasn’t Mammies arms surrounding her.

She hit the frozen ground with a loud thump. And for a while she couldn’t move. Because the air wasn’t properly getting trough her lungs. The air here was different, she came to realize; when her chest almost cave under the heavy feeling of never being able to smell sunshine again; like all the life had been sucked out of it, leaving only carcasses behind. And her body didn’t know what to do with it. Confused and angry it went into shutdown. She fought it over, but by the time they came into an agreement, so many happy memories faded away.

Which way now?

She shivered, just a little, knowing that she had almost certainly failed. Fingers trembling, she pulled the jacket tighter around her body, as if doing so, she’d prevent the cold to grow in deeper.

She only wanted to feel warm all over again.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎

By the life left in her, she couldn’t recall how much time passed lying on the concrete, knees under chin, eyes closed shut, dreaming of home when the stranger hand out the handkerchief to her. What an odd thing to own. A handkerchief.

Eyes devoid of light stared at it for a long time. There were no tears needed to be swiped away. Not a single thread of despair to be blown into it. Not a question, or a word spoken between them. Much like a painting, both frozen in the moment. A stranger with a handkerchief in hand and a small figure with a yellow jacket on.

– Al said I should be expecting company tonight… His voice was soft, and even though slightly curious, he waited patiently for her to bring her attention into focus. I thought you got lost somewhere along the way. Now I suspect, I wasn’t far from the truth.

Her only reaction was a soft nod.

While shadows were shifting along the building’s walls, rearranged by the street lights, a sliver of light caught the handkerchief in its passing. Heart up her throat, she swallowed hard, before shifting her gaze from the Purple star painted across it to the stranger’s face.

Hope fluttered in the pit of her stomach.

Ora de disecție

M-am temut că m-a prins febra fumatului. Aș putea să-ți povestesc aversiunea mea pentru țigări. Cum e printre puținele lucruri care-mi sunt întipărite adânc în copilăria mea …. Poate totuși altădată.

Știu de la ce a pornit acuma 3-4 luni. Știu momentul apăsător în care am decis ca vreau fumul să-mi prăjească plămânii. Să văd dacă chestia asta nenorocită mi-aduce vreun sentiment de împlinire emoțională. Dacă creierul meu înțelege disperarea din acțiuni și slăbește strânsoarea amintirilor. N-a funcționat.

‎Inchid ochii. Ești lângă mine. Îți simt căldură prin hanorac deși afara e al dracului de frig. M-ai întreba ce dracu caut cu țigara in mâna și mi-ai reproșa ca nu-mi stă bine. Aș râde, ipocrit afurisit ce ești. Și ți-aș mărturisi câtă nevoie de căldură am și cum mi-aș dori ca măcar tu sa nu fi renunțat la mine. Ca în unele nopți mi se face grozav de dor de tine și cât de greșită e toată iluzia asta a mea, pentru ca ție nu ți-a păsat niciodată. M-ai contrazice cu jumătate de gură, pentru ca deși e ușor sa arunci cu, cuvinte, ai ști că minți și dacă nu poți să-mi zici adevărul, merit măcar o secundă de alinare.

Simt fumul cum alunecă ușor în piept, îmi invăluiește orice organ rămas intact și apasă ritmic în căutare de puls. Iuțeala fumului s-a extins mai rapid ca orice. Tusea de tuberculist e semnul de protest al oricărei părți raționale din mine. Insist. Cu încă o inhalare. Simt. Cum arde. Cerul gurii. Gât. Final. Piept. Un alt protest zgomotos se rostogolește de pe buzele vineții. Renunț. O privesc cum arde între degetele tremurânde și inspir fiecare rotocol de fum. În aseară asta am realizat că încercând să fug de tine. Tot la tine am ajuns. Mirosul ăsta de amărăciune și adicție mi te conturează în minte. Cu ochii râzând leneș. Cu buzele cărnoase. Pielea goală fierbinte sub degetele mele veșnic reci. Cu gust de tine pe limbă. Aproape. Aproape. Vreau să fac acasă din tine.

Scutur grav din cap odată cu scrumul de țigară. O îndes enervată în scrumiera provizorie. Nu-mi permit alte adicții. In aerul rece. Cu luna plină deasupra mea luminând aleea. Într-o noapte de Februarie. Mult prea târziu. Am realizat că nevoia asta a mea de a fuma din când în când e o iluzie. În iluzia asta a mea există doar părțile bune din tine. Părțile de care îmi e dor. De parfumul tău. De mângâieri. De zâmbetul strâmb și nevoia mea febrila de a-ți simți pielea sub buze. Nu îți este permis sa exiști în mine în lumina asta. Nu îți e permis să ștergi cu buretele trauma.

Țigara din buzunarul stâng al hanoracului spune altă poveste. Nu-mi pot promite că o să fie ultima oară. O să am nevoie de tine și altădată. Poate altădată o să fiu mai puternică.

– Februarie, 2020.

Old friend.

I stopped writing because it felt wrong.

Because I wanted the sadness to stop. But the world wasn’t much help. You can’t stop the hurting, if you’re bleeding inside. You can’t feel alive, if you really don’t want to.

I always wake up before the Sun does. Which is wrong to say. Because I don’t really go to sleep at night. I just fall into stillness because parts of me are tired.

Behind my eyelids, flashes of last night go on and on. The taste of liquor and shame lingers on my tongue and my palms get sweaty underneath the blanket. There’s so much sadness in me; sometimes I imaging it swallowing me entirely. But it doesn’t.

I tell myself that last night wasn’t much big of a deal. It was a moment of weakness. One of many. Around you that is.

A bird’s chirp distracts me.

It’s past 11 p.m. On the kitchen floor, knees hugged, I rock back and forward. My head it’s pounding, my thoughts shift. There’s not a single one that will pull me back. I would like to cry. But I just stare at the melted chocolate chip on the floor. I can’t see much past it.

If I could , I’d crack my skull wide open. I’d want to know if there’s any colour left inside.

Nah…

Feelings tumble inside me like a flock of disoriented birds. I catch my breath before my anxiety kicks in. Jealousy. Anger. Frustration. Disaster. I feel all at once. And my thoughts slam hard against their cage looking for release.

There are half moon painted across my sweaty palms. There’s a rusty taste inside my mouth. I’ve chewed my bottom lip too hard in attempt to hold back.

I shiver.

Because my heart just shattered.

There’s so much I wanna say, but… Nah.

644f33d9ac529f054635ff1fc7f4be98

I have spent most of my days in bed. Wrapped in cozy blankets, in the warmness of the apartment. Here, almost trapped between these four walls, my mind gets so loud, that the urge to pour it out on paper is almost suffocating. But I don’t.

So I stare at the ceiling. And think. And think. And think.

It never ends. These delusions of mine.

The thoughts of you.

We talk for hours. But mostly me.

My voice gets shaky sometimes.

When I close my eyes, you move your fingers across my hips, my panties following them hypnotized as you brush with kisses the void you leave in the awakening of my skin. You’re too gentle, and I’m not one to be caressed with so much care. I’ve been hungry for so long that your games make me wanna slap you. Hard !

The heat, the wilderness in my veins makes it almost unbearable. 5 4 3 2 1 … frustration. My eyes are wide open. Wet fingers, wrinkled sheets and the absence of you.

The shivers are no longer from pleasure. There’s so much emptiness in these four walls of mine.

Stripped from the idea of you, my mind turns inward. It stumbles in the dark and gets confused cause you where here 5 seconds ago. But I don’t. I just stare. And stare. And stare. Until my eyes get tired and I go back to you.      

?Delete

Cuvinte,

atât de multe cuvinte

mi se încâlcesc în minte.

Nevoie,

nevoie sa le așez pe coala albă

Frică,

frică c-am uitat cum să le aranjez

în pagină,

nu fac sens.

Cuvinte,

atât de multe cuvinte,

mi se opresc pe buze.

Frică,

și frustrare – a trecut atât de mult timp.

?

Am vrut să scriu

Durere,

am uitat cum.

Nu fac sens cuvintele.

Delete.

 

“I couldn’t write a word about it, although I died in my head.”

— Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath

You just can’t go around blaming people for the things you feel.

My chest was griping too hard to my sanity. That alone, made the idea of breathing hurt. I wished for a split of a second that my throat would sting less, and I’ll be able to swallow the anger pilling in the back of my palms. Cuz they were closed shut, nails eating trough flesh, leaving moon like scars behind.

The light was too bright for my eyes, and they were desperately fighting to wash away the pain filled with the stubbornness to not lose focus on the blurry letters in front of me.

Blame me! screamed Hope.

So I did.

I spit up the excitement and the sparks that were seeding slowly in me for days. I whipped my lips with the back of my hand, like I’ve been wearing the wrong shade of lipstick. The one, that didn’t fit me at all, but somehow I managed to pull it off just to make my smile look real.

I sit across from you. You smile softly. There’s that warm sensation that feeds my blood and gets my heart pumping faster. Have I ever told you how much I enjoy seeing you smile? That, so beautiful, yet so rare smile of yours. Million times before.

You’re grabbing my hands, cupping them between yours, and that, simple action, makes me go fuzzy inside. You whisper something into my ear. I can’t hear you, but I nod and lean over to kiss your cheek. It feels so soft under my lips, that goose bumps start rising on my skin. I can’t take my eyes away from yours. They’re a soft brown. The one that takes you places and make you feel like home. I shift my hands and move them over to brush your hair. I always wanted to do that, to tease it, you. I move closer. I dreamed about kissing your neck and how your skin would feel under my lips. I take in your smell and I remember a song. That makes me giggle. Can’t keep my hands to myself.

You watch me curious, and I wonder how long it will take for the elevator to stop and for me to wake up, and step away.

I sit across from you. But inside, you pull me closer. I shiver.

Protejat: .Act of 3.

Acest conținut este protejat cu parolă. Pentru a-l vizualiza, te rog introdu parola mai jos:

Protejat: .Act of 3.

Acest conținut este protejat cu parolă. Pentru a-l vizualiza, te rog introdu parola mai jos: