My turn to look at the ceiling After scraping me dry with a tissue, she fits her head into the crook of my arm, and closes her eyes.
The rental darkens:
her breathing deepens, rasps, settles into a slow beat:
her flesh slowly cooling, condensing.
The spilt jewels of the city sparkle ever more brightly, through the foolish window.
My arms circle her.
Until her cell rings.
{140}
>> posted by John Psmyth
• 1/20/2006 09:27:00 PM
•
1 comments
1 Comments:
Something achingly sad about this post.
DTG xxoo
