Every stare has meaning, it seems. A slight change in the way the corners of your eyes fold, makes me feel like you are smiling at me with just your glance. I search for a kind of similar train of thought in your eyes because I attempt to vocalise my thoughts. I want to ask you to go to bed together, yet it seems like I could just make love to you right here, when someone else is still in the room with us. I could make love to you with my eyes.
I am numb and so is the time. My soft glance becomes more aggressive like a peaceful protest turned violent. But I am not violent, I am content, relaxed, floating.
But instead I place my Rubens-like lady leg next to your heavy, Minotaur looking leg. I realise how I like the waiting, how it is slightly torturous in the most delightful way imaginable. I am overwhelmed with the feeling of a beautiful looking butterfly landing onto me, flapping its colourful but surprisingly sharp wings. My leg, leading a life of its own, touches yours and I gently press it against you. So you look at me, wondering whether I did it by chance or perhaps I was fully aware of the physical touching going on between us. I am.
I like the dusty red light covering your face without hiding your expressions, which I enjoy binge watching. I am numb and so is the time. And the third person leaves. My soft glance becomes more aggressive like a peaceful protest turned violent. But I am not violent, I am content, relaxed, floating.
So I enclose your face in my hands and I make my nose touch yours, and I turn towards your cheek. So we just brush our faces against one another. It seems that everything that may or may not come after this, won’t be able to surpass the simple act of our cheeks caressing.