It is the gentle curve of the sea, where water seems more of glass than it is water. Where the sea is nothing but a coral paperweight, and there is nothing but the kiss of salt winds.
It is the touch of disgust, the taste of copper and sick on his tongue. Blue is a beautiful color, it is a sorrows contrast against puffed cheeks and blood shot eyes, the gentle crash of sea-foam on cream colored sand. A range of emotion, a thing that he can not understand, there is something frightening about the color blue.
Seconds spent drifting away, a shoulder against another, a head lolling backwards and the gentle rise and fall of chests. Heavy eyelids, limbs stretched, bodies too warm as the sun sinks its way. Alabaster skies are beautiful to sleep under.
A kiss, the sun kisses too much, leaves the fray of his fur burnt in a crisp that is pleasant-- will leave him warm in the night, when he will toss and turns and keeps himself on the very edge of sleep. The sun gives a gentle kiss of his eyelids, ushers him on. Go on, she whispers with each kiss, and she urges him into the water. Frightening. It is cold, her kisses are washed away, replaced with hands that grip tight and tug in sporadic direction. He has no control, cold fingers dig into flesh and grip his bones, ushering him to the right and left; thrashed about, there is a burning in his chest and he feels, for a moment, that he is nothing but the burn. The thought of breaching, the suns kisses, her warm lips against every inch of cold-touched flesh are all that drives him back.
It is love, it is hate. Blue is a depth of emotion that he does not understand, that he does not want to be painted on his flesh. There it is, the flick of a tail reminds him, each step and glance is a memory. Love, hate. Blue is a depth of himself he was not ready to evaluate.
It is the touch of disgust, the taste of copper and sick on his tongue. Blue is a beautiful color, it is a sorrows contrast against puffed cheeks and blood shot eyes, the gentle crash of sea-foam on cream colored sand. A range of emotion, a thing that he can not understand, there is something frightening about the color blue.
Seconds spent drifting away, a shoulder against another, a head lolling backwards and the gentle rise and fall of chests. Heavy eyelids, limbs stretched, bodies too warm as the sun sinks its way. Alabaster skies are beautiful to sleep under.
A kiss, the sun kisses too much, leaves the fray of his fur burnt in a crisp that is pleasant-- will leave him warm in the night, when he will toss and turns and keeps himself on the very edge of sleep. The sun gives a gentle kiss of his eyelids, ushers him on. Go on, she whispers with each kiss, and she urges him into the water. Frightening. It is cold, her kisses are washed away, replaced with hands that grip tight and tug in sporadic direction. He has no control, cold fingers dig into flesh and grip his bones, ushering him to the right and left; thrashed about, there is a burning in his chest and he feels, for a moment, that he is nothing but the burn. The thought of breaching, the suns kisses, her warm lips against every inch of cold-touched flesh are all that drives him back.
It is love, it is hate. Blue is a depth of emotion that he does not understand, that he does not want to be painted on his flesh. There it is, the flick of a tail reminds him, each step and glance is a memory. Love, hate. Blue is a depth of himself he was not ready to evaluate.
