sakuragirlram

The moment that you realize that you don't need this, that you're living a lie, that everything is wrong, that it cannot be fixed, that you realize that every second has been fake, that every moment was false, and that none of it matters, will be the second. The second time. And we all know that third time's a charm.

You could call such a thing intimate, a shotgun down my throat. And call me crazy when I find a connection behind such a curious "kiss." Rather a kiss, more like a brush of the lips, as the hazy little bullet makes it's way to your lungs. You've taken the hit, been hit by a shotgun kiss, and hold the bullet calm and ready. Watch your blood glide from your lips in pretty, smoky, curls. Lean in for another, a little bit addicted to the sensation of the gun on your tongue. And the feel in your expanded lungs. You take another hit, another hit to the lungs from the shotgun kiss.

Do you truly understand the effect, the echo, the imprint, left by the words I, Love, and you? Strung together in a seamless beauty. Or forced with frayed ends?

Let's waste time together. Watch the air disappear behind our lips, feel the blood in our beating hearts, a finger tip graze, a forgotten whisper, as the clock ticks away, as we blink our curious eyes, Let's waste time in an everlasting embrace. Watch the hairs on our skin stand on end, feel our skin touch, a secret behind your smile, a response behind my lashes, as time whisks away, as we fall into this thing called love, let's waste time in this pretty little daze. Watch each others lips move in fancy little ways, feel them touch in an even fancier way, a gentle little brush, an even gentler reassurance, as our li

If I sit still long enough, and let my body reach that point of total relaxation as I sit in the silence of my hopefully quiet surroundings, I can feel you there. I can feel you touching my face. If I sit still long enough, I can feel you. I can touch you, taste you, smell you. A roughness beneath my fingertips as they glide along your jaw line. The sometimes sweet, sometimes acidic smell of your breath, and the smoky undertones on your clothes. The taste of your chapped lips. I feel your hands on my hips, the feel of fabric brushing up my chest, and over my face. I can feel the rush of your breath against my skin and your lips

Skin and Touch go hand in hand. As does that heavy, warm, tingle you get in your chest. The rush of blood and the air in your lungs. You feel the tingle in your arms as you restrain yourself. Digging your teeth into your lip. The tingle has reached your fingers as you reach forward to touch their face. The feel of their skin, like it matches the very imprints in your fingers, is somewhat perfect. Your heart pounds harder, and faster, as you cup their face in your hands. Their chin in the crook, their skin warm. Velvety, velvety skin. Your breath quickens as you lean forward. The atmosphere slows everything down, and your noses b

He was the black sheep. I stared hard at him, tracing every curve, eyeing every detail and memorizing it. I had never seen someone like him in my life. His hair was jet black and obscured the sides of his face in sharp fringes. His skin was marble white, and contrasting against his near translucent complexion, was thin, near bottomless golden eyes. His pale lips were pulled into a crooked smirk. His face was thin, and he had high cheekbones. Aside from a slightly long nose, he could have been considered handsome by some. He was slender, and wore a fitted black shirt accompanied by an odd necklace and old, torn, loose jeans. His shoes we

There were those little threads, the thin little strings, keeping the right intact. The ones that whispered "You're beautiful" came loose. The one that made me blush quietly snapped. The one that told me I made it happy, also came to it's happy demise. Stop making me forget why I hate you. Because that thin line, is becoming thinner and thinner with every passing heartbeat.

I'll shoot you down with a little story much like the one you've heard before. Sorry if i'm boring you, kind sir. Putting my trust in your hands isn't as easy as you think. Sorry that my turmoil bores you. Sorry that I chose to confide in you, and pour my thoughts out in a quiet, sometimes rapid stream, for your now obviously forced indulgence. You were expecting something new, I see? Sorry that my life is on rewind replay. And that your poor, poor ears must endure it's comedy like re-occurences. I listen to your woe. To your constant strife. Never once did I tell you It was growing old, you selfish, piece, of shit. You re

That warm, heavy feeling in my chest, the faint tingle in my limbs. Your voice is quiet, and oh so carefully, you ask If I'd talk about last Thursday.