- May 9th, 2010 -
Her body is stretching with laziness under the white blanket. The image seems detached from a painting by Gustave Courbet.
I look at her soft skin that gets caressed by the sunshine as if I'm jealous of them. I'm watching her from the kitchen's table. I shouldn't, but the coffee's smell merged with hers.
I look at the coffee.
It has an abysmal and immaterial black.
I look at her.
She has the same features, even if her pale skin whispers something else. She's pure.
She's moaning, and I'm shaking remembering and enjoying last nights' delights.
I look at her.
Her body is stretching with laziness under the white blanket. The image seems detached from a painting by Gustave Courbet.
YOU ARE READING
PIECES
General FictionA love story in 7 chapters. Pieces of thoughts of a man, lost as they happened, but forever kept in the ink sculptured in the cracks of his heart.
