Short prose piece for you all before I disappear into the world of novel rewriting.
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Brush strokes on canvas. Words written on a postcard to confess what the mouth cannot.
“You are the reason I paint.”
Brown eyes like almonds. Locks of hair falling like black waterfalls to brush her lower back. A body constantly in motion.
I always had a thing for dancers.
Tears falling from her eyes. Her hand cups my face, mine rests on her shoulder.
“Are you okay?” I ask. She nods. I crave the feel of my lips on hers, crave that joining I’ve never felt.
She breaks before I do, moves her hand away, moves to leave. Leaves me with the memory of the time I almost kissed her. Leaves me with a million inspired words and brush strokes.
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