It was a cold and rainy night. I stared at you when you were already sleeping on that small bed—too contracted for us that made us unintentionally touch each others' skin. The fire began to rise through my shuddering vein. I felt comfortable; seconds—minutes—hours—days—and months. I then stood up and went outside. What I saw was really indescribable; such nirvana that I see; such tranquility that I feel—seconds—minutes—hours—days—and months; I went back by your side. I can’t resist myself not to look at your glistening eyes, hear your effervescent laugh and feel your warm touch. I hear the rain pouring from the outside, everything now is dull and gloomy. I feel so irritated by the thought of the noise’s silence; later did I realize that it’s only me trying to break some walls—walls that’s blocking the sight of my version of you while you, without me noticing, you are starting to caress my body slowly. I felt your soft lips on mine, on my neck, down to my chest while your hands are also wandering to different parts of my body. I can feel my hips rising; I’m getting there. I don’t know if you feel it. I want to explode; I want you to hear me breathe so loud; but I am trying hard to resist it. How I wish I could; but I couldn’t--I shouldn’t. SHARE THIS ARTICLE: |
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'es-theet' (n.) A person who affects great love of art, music, poetry, etc., and indifference to practical matters. El Esthete or The Aesthete in English, is where I share my Literary works, artworks, and everything else in between. Categories:
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