The Writers Voice
Favourite Literary Website
The Write Way
It is a delicate affair. On again, off again over the rolling years. To be
honest, I truly
don't know what keeps us together. Most likely it's a habitual relationship with
another, moving through our shared days with cursory nonchalance. Comfortably
addicted to our mutual convenience.
She is always there when I need her. Never more than an arm's length away. I
hold her for hours and hours. Tightly. Until the sweat runs freely over our
skin. She presses deeply into my flesh. Imprinting her desire. It is a turbid
intercourse. With the words pouring from the tip of her lip like smudged
moans of a tripping addict. They are scribbles in the shadows. Largely
explicatives ejaculating from unleashed wildness. In my hands she is a
carnal creature. Unpredictable. And feverously infectious. And even though she
never call my name, I would need to have my way with her. Too often.
Admittedly I am an overbearing bastard. For hours or days she lays there
and speechless. Cold, stiff and unforgiving no matter how I stroke her or coo
affection. Cradling her numbness between my fingers. A half hearted twirl to
cracking lame smile. Her rebuttal is a tap, tap on my furrowed forehead ground
sound for sanity.
The answers sputter eventually in one form or another. And I question if they
genuinely hers. Because the only time she speaks to me is when my voice touches
her. Saying the thoughts that I would want her to.
I know that she has a brain of her own. And I have seen her speak with forceful
on her own merit. But my presence contaminates her nature. She toyfully
my puppet. Waiting for me to guide her intentions through every moment step.
I don't love her. I don't hate her. But I will never understand her as long as I
This is a truly peculiar marriage with Miss Precious Pen. But these are my
story and my life.
Critique this work
Click on the book to leave a comment about this work