Her Body Is The Shape Of My Hands

An open door. The sea. Desolate shopping arcades. Smiles as she walks hand in hand, with me. Teeth white like milk, sharp. A lover. A woman. Wind, blowing sand in our faces. A dress she wears, so pretty showing curves so, fine. Hand in hand upon the promenade, the day goes on forever. Love, some kind of love as we kiss. Colours everywhere. Heat, burning my pale flesh. The scent of her hair. The sadness in her eyes. The sorrow, that I always try so hard to erase. Smoking a cigarette, we sit down and eat. She’s too beautiful for words. She’s best expressed through sound and light. A light brighter than the sun. A sound similar, to the sighs she sighs in the moments of pure bliss. An intake of breath, and then release. She lays there exhausted, exhilarated by my touch. No ghosts, only feelings. A breeze, curtains rippling. Hands around her waist, mouth pressed close, behind her ear. Empty melting streets. Faraway laughter, faint yet giddy. Sunday. Sunday in bed, with her. Nothing to fear. Nothing to fear. Laying in silence, with fingers linked. Soft. Soft like snow. Melting through the warmth, of two burning hearts. Some kind of perfection. Some kind of joy.

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