Scribbling:
Tragedy
of Wanderer:
All I
remember was she lying upside down with her bare back facing me and dumbstruck I
continued staring at it like a child stares at the moon around puberty. I continued
gazing at that soft skin while my fingers did the tap dancing all around, I watched
them amazed at their skill, I wished I could match their rhythm but they were
acting too expert, silent sounds of their tapping were bringing out music too
seductive to control, I let myself drown. It appeared my fountain pen was
filled with darkness and I could scribble all over her bare back like the night
writes over the sky, a language understood only either by lovers or by those
left alone to bear the burden of solitude. Soon she had become a poem filled
with darkness and I felt like the North Star waiting for her to allow me to
kiss, to love, to guide myself towards north where sages live; for she was
sensual, she was a spark, a poetry who would tempt hearts for eternity but
being a fading star I could only live when she was near me, at her darkest,
where her secrets shone like the moon, and I couldn’t resist anymore but to
kiss her groovy rib-cages.
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