Does it count as taking your time, pausing between each item fingers on clasps, heartbeat a tempo dancing beneath the skin in a skip, skip rhythm I felt against my breastbone. Slid my foot along the seat of a chair like the one I sat in, bare skin cold against the plastic. Counted the buttons, two, four, six, stopped when they ran out and fabric hung loose from my shoulders. Open. Parted my thighs the same, slow, or maybe fast, the motion of it blurred in memory distracted by your face close to mine. Open mouthed. Kissed you, slowly. Open legs. I won’t say what we did next.
Almost indistinct, her watermark. Yet when I looked beneath your words I saw only her instead of you.
‘How can you forget where you left it?’ Samantha demanded, shooting Michael a withering look before closing her eyes and counting to ten. In a moment she would let out a deep sighing breath and give Michael her best, why do you insist on embarrassing me stare before ordering another drink from the bar and forgetting the subject altogether. 1,2,3,4- ‘I mean really Michael!’ Michael blinked, confused as to where the last 6 seconds had gone and why she hadn’t ordered a large glass of red wine. She wasn’t following the natural order. ‘It’s a bench!’ Samantha spluttered. ‘You cannot misplace a bench! Especially not one of yours! They’re massive and made of wood. WOOD MICHAEL! WOOD!’ Everyone else in the pub had fallen silent now, the hum of conversation dying as all eyes turned to stare at the couple having the argument. Or rather, Samantha yelling at her bemused husband since Michael rarely said two words to anyone about anything. ‘I could understand a nail or two, perhaps even your level metre, but misplacing …
They told me you were hard to puzzle out, a riddle wrapped in a conundrum. Like an onion, I would have to peel back the layers to find what you really were beneath. In reality, your smile was so open, I walked in uninvited.
You arrived too early, at the point when my heart could only shudder not flutter. So unused to feeling anything besides the grinding of pieces forcing themselves to fit into places grown too small. Instead of heat pooling somewhere deep there was fire along my hairline inside the back of my skull, with some primordial lesson still drumming in the shadows of my DNA. A tempo of hammering, lungs creasing and collapsing feet turned to lead still beating with the panic of my pulse as I let the miles run out of count beneath me. Catching my breath was a year long exericse which when marked only came up with a half score of ‘could do better if she applied herself’ and ‘doesn’t seem to really understand the subject matter discussed.’ Daily Post: Premature
We kicked the sheets to the foot of the bed where they twisted like ropes, caught us around our ankles, legs already woven into each other, pricked over in fresh sweat that made their clinging embrace too much for the fire under our skins. Tonight’s prompt for the DVerse Poets Quadrille night is fire!
You complimented the whisky on its burn while I scowled a tight lipped pucker against my teeth as if I could suck the taste away. Smoke stung I groped for something sweeter, hands landing on skin instead, you pressed fire kisses to my mouth. I think I’ll have another crack at the Quadrille Prompt ‘burn’ later on tonight because I’m not happy with how this one turned out. The last line doesn’t sit quite right but I ran out of words.
I’m far too good at handing over pieces of myself and it’s a wonder that there’s any of me left to give. Each time, I held my heart with both hands. Shattered it with a white knuckle grip and offered out the fragments like bon-bons, melting and sticky in my palm. I should have kept them closer, away from those who saw only wrappers and threw them aside without thought. Others tucked them into corners or placed them on shelves out of sight out of mind. No one realised I’d become a jigsaw. Not until you. Daily Prompt: Delivery
Our hands weren’t designed to fit together, they’re not puzzle pieces clicking into place or lego snapped into shape, there is no ergonomic design at play or thought to how our fingers interlay they fit because we ask them to. You’ve taken my hand enough times to wear leather into my palms so the callouses on yours can’t prick me. We’ve held wrists at awkward angles until our forearms burn with pins and needles because the other one is half asleep. We have rearranged and adjusted, twisted, worried, knotted fingers into bows, all to read the pulse under a thumb. We have crafted these hands with love. Made them to slot inside each other easily. Created something beautiful in simplicity. Written For The Daily Prompt: Partner Make sure to check out the new link up I’ll be running on Fridays! This week the challenge is to carry on the story using the beginning given! You can write your own story in full and link it in or just add a paragraph to carry on the …
Sweat sitting sticky in a shallow pool rippling. With each breath inhaled the hollow between her breasts fills deeper again. That hidden tremor running from calf to rib-cage, echoed with a groan that rumbles through to marrow deep and guttural. Knees converted into hooks, grappling for contact drawing deeper into sheets they hold, lock, engage. Nails drawing across a scalp and hair thick between fingers something for purchase. lips, tongue and teeth, clash, curl, bite, praises, curses, moaned. gasping for air or for words, muscles arching back drawn to breaking point, to snap. Sweat sitting sticky, that hollow between her breasts kisses press lazily up. Thursday night over at the DVerse Poets Pub is form night, and tonight we’ve been challenged to write a Choka which is a Japanese style of poem. It words on an alternating 5-7 syllable count with an extra 7 syllable line at the end. I decided to combine the Choka form with today’s Daily Prompt: Temptation.