Spilled Ink (Currently undergoing updates.)

standingonskyscrapers:

I go through nights where I can listen to one song over and over again, simply because the melody makes me think of your hands on my waist and back.  The way your fingers run, heavy, over my modest excuse for curves and pry into recesses that lead curious fingers right to my soul.  And that’s not suggestive.  My words are not screaming “I want to be with you! ” for once.  Just simply stating that when your arms rest around my shoulders, its like you could crawl inside each fold of my stress and tell me the words my spirit is whispering tonight.  Do you hear your name, enfolded in a melody that sounds like autumn fire and dissonant jazz music, tainted with breaks of laughter?  Each measure plays out a story of melting skin to skin and comfort in a sigh that holds no more or less than this one statement:  love.  Love that will eventually replace oil and gasoline as a power source, because that is a shortage the world can do something about, without going to war.  And if you were ever to go off to war, I would go through weeks where I could listen to one song over and over again, simply because the melody makes me think of your hands on my waist and back.  And I would send you the chords across the sea, hoping they might make you think of my lips in your ear, whispering, ” Love is touching souls, and surely you touched mine…”