Let It Drip

Their prudent foot steps meet under a lamppost. But she wonders if the night’s breeze nudged her there. Any other night would have been easy, but neither of them are ready for the walk. He states a greeting to which she replies with diffidence. So he steps closer. With one inch inbetween them, a chill escapes her. He takes the traditional cue to hold her arms, bringing it into a hug. Familiar. 

She considers reaching for his throat to hold tight to. Instead, she caresses his nape. His sweet nothings slips into her ears. And she let’s them. She need it to hold on to, much like the embrace his gives in this moment. 

Let’s just kiss, She says.

And with that, she’s said all of what she needed to.

With instinct, looking into his flame like eyes, she licks his lips a part to kiss. The need to explain exactly how she feels becomes the single most important goal. She wonders how can he overstand her unless her core speaks? He returns it with passion. This kiss is wetter than usual. The taste of copper fills their mouths. She let’s go to watch his blood flow. 

Let it drip, he tells her.

So she watches his picture show. Tempted to fall back in, she glares at the drip flow.

In My Tree,

Owl

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