M
he imbues the whole canvas like he owns the macrocosm in between the palms of his heaven sent eyes with fingertips consisting of rose buds in every spaces of it. he colors each details of the monochromatic artwork the way he let his playful tongue rush against my skin, upon the stars of my neck down to the folds of my entrance. it isn't just a mere desire. he explores my nudity as though a painting he has been working on for centuries. with tears escaping my eyes and beg of mercy airing on my voice, he never called me the other guys used to call their sweet little rosaline. but he called me beauty, and beauty is supposed to be labeled as art. there, the first summer night where he first brushed his whole masculinity unto me—that's where i knew i would be his all time masterpiece.
he smooth out the creases of his sublime artwork while i let his fingers travel throughout my whole stomach. he sketches the portrait of sol and luna upon my persimmon belly defining them as him and me. i let out a subtle smile appear on my lips, he smiled back at me with the cosmos dwelling inside his eyes. the whole room is gloomy and dark, only the sight of stars give us a peck of light to dream, he spontaneously attacked me with kisses. as if a mellow played on the walkman—soft, light and feathery that the only thing you'd feel is certainty. i let my honey arms rest on his beautiful nape, and he started to slide his tongue inside mine claiming that he now owns my mouth. his arms adjusted lower, large hands now touching the side of my mountains, then i feel him playing with them the way he mix up colors on his palette.
a colorful mercy escaped from his breathing, i let his paintbrush roam around my body. he reached the edges of my silky soft pink lingerie, and our eyes met for the seventh time, asking for permission, i throw him my kisses instead while i feel his soft tips slowly removing the clothes wrapped on my soul. a heat of sanity clouded our spirits, i can feel his hard chest rest against mine as he examine each of my glaciers though i wasn't exactly an art or a portrait—he made me feel like i am one, displayed inside the museums of paris.
the midnight ignite the longing orbiting around us, the crave and hunger finally has come out. he started to own me with his plea of claude monet's bain à la grenouillère, dorothea sharp's dusk portrait, pierre-auguste renoir's oil painting. like a lyricism of masterpieces, he rocked my whole divinity with so much pleasure that i could even distinguish the hidden meaning of abstracts and anamorphosis. i gasped, reaching out of rainbow air in the ceiling, feeling the pain extracted on my inner most line. he enshrouded my rose with white sand and pearls and dreamt promises. squinting and memorizing the anatomy of my filament with his pencil brushes as the nectar exploded the tangerine mist and our bodies are now soaked with feverish cornflower ocean.
our breaths sighing of happiness, he then once again play with my gold hair. dusk start to arrive at our place, while we continue to catch the stardust on our own. our bed of canvas became a little fragile at this state, oh blissful painter i wasn't warned you'd be this professional. i'd never forget the way you created your own impressionism: thrust, groan, lick. that's how my painter painted his own portrait.
: i AM SO SORRY I AM TOO YOUNG TO CREATE THIS BUT I HOPE YOU GUYS APPRECIATED IT.
LOLZ.
—swevenry.
