22. Temporary
His skin is unspeakably soft, pale as a reflection. I remember that first night, when I just ran my hand through his hair over and over again, feeling it tug gently at my fingers and stubbornly refuse to uncurl, ever. His face is clear and delicate, framed by bushy eyebrows. He's smiling; his lips form a subtle pink crease, echoing the many more in his long, thin neck. I can see a twinkle in his eyes. His shirt makes his irises stand out, and they're glossy green, greener than usual; or maybe that's just a reflection of the fairy lights. I like the way his fingertips skate over my arms. His other hand is firm on his phone as he talks about some new video, shows me pictures of home, something—I'm listening, but I don't really hear him. I'm fascinated by his perfect skin. He notices that I'm distracted, and blows a raspberry at me, making his cheeks pop. I laugh and kiss his chin. There's a tiny dip between his shoulder and chest where my head fits just right. I breathe him in. Clean, sweet, bright.
YOU ARE READING
Grey Light
Short StoryA collection of short pieces, one-shots, character sketches, and scenes that don't belong anywhere (yet). Alternative description: Word dump for thoughts & feelings I want to get out of my head or remember forever. June 2014-2018
