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Mar. 10th, 2005 09:08 pmyour eyes. they're first. they're like...green eyes done in watercolours. a muted rainbow and such solid emotion. the way that the skin underneath them is so dark, like eyeliner or something but etched there with a past and not kohl. i hate what they stand for and love that they're yours. oh, your eyelashes. elegant i guess, sensual maybe. long. thick. dark. beautiful. eyelashes of an angel, i swear. one butterfly sort of kiss and i know you're ethereal. um. oh, god. there's so so so much more. i can't really stop, you know?
your lips, avery. the curve that oscar wilde predicted, the kisses they're capable of. and your tongue...if i see it accidentally, if your mouth opens too wide around a word or if you lick your wonderful lips, oh that turns me on like nothing else. what it is about your tongue i'll never really know, but fuck i have to stop talking now or this letter will never be finished.
i could now talk about your chest. your hips your neck your back? all that, though, it seems too broad and too impersonal...it's the little things that make me love you more. the dip where your shoulder meets neck, perfect to drop kisses in as you sleep and leave them for you to collect in the morning. the impossible pink colour of your nipples but more specifically the feel of them grow instantly hard with the brush of a nail or sweep of a tongue. that crease sort of line that defines your hips and provides a lovely guide for nail-marking and for biting, a line leading down down down even though i don't really need a guide at this point.
your knees. the way you move and the pale colour of your skin and the bad one and the soft skin at the back of them. pale like...like you must have been once, as a wee avery, a baby puppy like the pictures that missus driscoll has up. i envy her for knowing you then--more than knowing you, of course, but what it must have been like to hold you, rock you to sleep and dream of how wonderful you might become...I suppose i do that, don't i? jake and i do. but now i, we know just exactly how wonderful you really are.
and we love you.
your lips, avery. the curve that oscar wilde predicted, the kisses they're capable of. and your tongue...if i see it accidentally, if your mouth opens too wide around a word or if you lick your wonderful lips, oh that turns me on like nothing else. what it is about your tongue i'll never really know, but fuck i have to stop talking now or this letter will never be finished.
i could now talk about your chest. your hips your neck your back? all that, though, it seems too broad and too impersonal...it's the little things that make me love you more. the dip where your shoulder meets neck, perfect to drop kisses in as you sleep and leave them for you to collect in the morning. the impossible pink colour of your nipples but more specifically the feel of them grow instantly hard with the brush of a nail or sweep of a tongue. that crease sort of line that defines your hips and provides a lovely guide for nail-marking and for biting, a line leading down down down even though i don't really need a guide at this point.
your knees. the way you move and the pale colour of your skin and the bad one and the soft skin at the back of them. pale like...like you must have been once, as a wee avery, a baby puppy like the pictures that missus driscoll has up. i envy her for knowing you then--more than knowing you, of course, but what it must have been like to hold you, rock you to sleep and dream of how wonderful you might become...I suppose i do that, don't i? jake and i do. but now i, we know just exactly how wonderful you really are.
and we love you.
