witty-remark's Diaryland Diary

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I run my hand down the small of your back and press my finger to the corner of your mouth where I can sense a steady pulse. A subtle flutter throbs beneath your skin like butterflies waiting to escape the whispers of your tongue the moment it unfurls.
You take my hand in yours and the bones of our knuckles rub against one another the way dogs itch their backs on the rough bark of trees.
Neither of us like wine, but our tastes are cheap and our palettes unrefined, so you take a swig and I follow suit.
You squeeze my fingers and I look down to see the world in the palm of my hand.

11:26 p.m. - Sunday, Jul. 26, 2009

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