Spilled Ink (Currently undergoing updates.)

distant-signals:

Rain on the tent, a staccato rhythm played out like hurtling heartbeats, a hundred thousand tones struck against leaf, bark, stone and wood. Darkness, cold, your breath just visible in the air. And somewhere distant, with no real menace but rather begrudging tenderness, thunder rolls through the empty woods. Ten toes in this single sleeping bag, the soft prod of your hips against mine, your perfect weight keeping me pinned with gentle intent. The taste of ink lingers on your fingers, the smell of smoke drifts in your hair. Quiet longing and whispered words, this delicate harmony below and between the symphonic rain.