Victorian Romance in 2017
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, wonâ€™t be able to surpass the simple act of our cheeks caressing.