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31_days2012-07-30 10:54 pm
noir-au-blanc.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2012-07-30 10:54 pm
July 30 - Original - The Mirror
Title: The Mirror.
Day/Theme: July 30 – “The memory cheats, the past is dead.”
Series: Original
Rating: M
I refuse to apologise for the sights Ive seen, for the paths that Ive chosen and for the choices that Ive made.
Once, you were my ideal, prostrated on my bed much like God, and I crawled up between your legs and laid my mouth down and kissed of your depth and length.
These were my memories of you, like a cracked veneer over the mirror, you were more beautiful to behold in the mirror than in my reality.
I used to hear you on the whisper of the winds, of the leaves that rustle and blow – or smell you in the salt in the air. The sleepy drawl and languid eye which roves around hollows and blades to merge with the dust motes hanging in the air like starstruck diamonds in sunlight.
Your fingers used to caress up the spine and hook around neck, to find that hair which curls possessive around shoulder and arm.
There is this inexplicable feeling brought forth and denied in the same instance, was it, were you - my folly? I wonder?
The shadows merges, assimilating into some form of texture not without permission and not without taste.
No hope, no harm. Just another false alarm.
Day/Theme: July 30 – “The memory cheats, the past is dead.”
Series: Original
Rating: M
I refuse to apologise for the sights Ive seen, for the paths that Ive chosen and for the choices that Ive made.
Once, you were my ideal, prostrated on my bed much like God, and I crawled up between your legs and laid my mouth down and kissed of your depth and length.
These were my memories of you, like a cracked veneer over the mirror, you were more beautiful to behold in the mirror than in my reality.
I used to hear you on the whisper of the winds, of the leaves that rustle and blow – or smell you in the salt in the air. The sleepy drawl and languid eye which roves around hollows and blades to merge with the dust motes hanging in the air like starstruck diamonds in sunlight.
Your fingers used to caress up the spine and hook around neck, to find that hair which curls possessive around shoulder and arm.
There is this inexplicable feeling brought forth and denied in the same instance, was it, were you - my folly? I wonder?
The shadows merges, assimilating into some form of texture not without permission and not without taste.
No hope, no harm. Just another false alarm.