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Description
He smelled like summer: warm, with a hint of dry grass and a medly of flowers, all browned to perfection beneath the pressing light of the sun. He smelled safe, inviting, soothing, invigorating.

As I careened into something resembling a state of rest, his scent drew me from the security of thoughtlessness and sent a shiver up my spine. Maybe he felt it, too, for he shifted a bit, and the next few moments were spent shuffling our bodies into a more comfortable place. Slowly, I inched myself closer to his heart, listening to it beat against the shelter of half sleep, lulling me further into silence, pulling me towards the sound of his breathing. Steady, even, mimicking my own. Another shudder coarsed through my body as his finger traced the tiniest circle along my hip.

And then it began. His heart began to race, as did mine, and our breaths hitched in our throats as our hands brushed. His were so much bigger than mine, rougher, stronger. His hand was more daring. Two fingers now engulfed my own, and the louder his heart drummed in my ear, the further his hand crept, until it gloved my own.

Silence. Such silence. There were words being spoken, yes. There was uneven breathing, sporatic heartbeats, the hum of a sleeping city. But I felt those sounds more than hearing thm. Silence is what I heard. In that silence, we made love.

Like the ocean, we ebbed and flowed, answering to the pull of the moon. It was gentle, timid, blindly reaching for boundaries that never were. Then, when finding there was no resistance, only invitation, he became more daring. He pushed against me rather than moving with me. He smothered me, dowsed me in his self. He grew ravenous as he continued, drawing more and more from within me, and filling me beyond the brim all at once.

As suddenly as it began, the silence was broken, and he took flight, leaving me empty of everything I’d clung to before, forcing me to latch on to foreign concepts in fear of drowning, in fear of losing something, or finding something I couldn’t handle. I took what he left me and wanted to run, but I faltered before my foot could lift from the ground.

Silence. Such silence. There were words being spoken, yes. There were even breaths, rhythmic heartbeats, the hum of a sleepless city. I heard those sounds. Silence is what I felt. In that silence, he left me there, bare, reborn.
After the silence, no matter how much I screamed, no matter how many dirty looks, no matter how raw my throat became, no matter how dry my eyes were, I knew he wouldn’t give me a straight answer. No matter how I dressed up the words, the skeletons beneath the cloth was the same. And his answer was, as always, silence.

Why? Why did he take me, then run? Before, when he held my hand, I was sure he’d have stayed, cradled me against his chest and protect me against the natural erosion of living. But here I am, flaking off one nerve at a time, and he just stands there. The same pensive expression on his milky white face. I’m not sure you could really call it an expression. Emotion never touched his features. His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but was something more than a neutral positioning of the mouth.

Why did he take me and run away? God, I wanted to shake him, to start letting into him, cause him some sort of harm, force his face to twist into even a wince. I wanted the satisfaction of knowing I hurt him, of knowing he understood the pain he’d caused me by abandoning me without so much as a word.

Silence. I was met with silence, just as the night we made love. Silence. Not even his heartbeat could calm me. I crumbled into a tearful mess at his feet, pleading now, wanting nothing more than some recognition.

Nothing. He turned, and again, he left me bare, but all the wiser.

Description
He smelled like summer: warm, with a hint of dry grass and a medly of flowers, all browned to perfection beneath the pressing light of the sun. He smelled safe, inviting, soothing, invigorating.

As I careened into something resembling a state of rest, his scent drew me from the security of thoughtlessness and sent a shiver up my spine. Maybe he felt it, too, for he shifted a bit, and the next few moments were spent shuffling our bodies into a more comfortable place. Slowly, I inched myself closer to his heart, listening to it beat against the shelter of half sleep, lulling me further into silence, pulling me towards the sound of his breathing. Steady, even, mimicking my own. Another shudder coarsed through my body as his finger traced the tiniest circle along my hip.

And then it began. His heart began to race, as did mine, and our breaths hitched in our throats as our hands brushed. His were so much bigger than mine, rougher, stronger. His hand was more daring. Two fingers now engulfed my own, and the louder his heart drummed in my ear, the further his hand crept, until it gloved my own.

Silence. Such silence. There were words being spoken, yes. There was uneven breathing, sporatic heartbeats, the hum of a sleeping city. But I felt those sounds more than hearing thm. Silence is what I heard. In that silence, we made love.

Like the ocean, we ebbed and flowed, answering to the pull of the moon. It was gentle, timid, blindly reaching for boundaries that never were. Then, when finding there was no resistance, only invitation, he became more daring. He pushed against me rather than moving with me. He smothered me, dowsed me in his self. He grew ravenous as he continued, drawing more and more from within me, and filling me beyond the brim all at once.

As suddenly as it began, the silence was broken, and he took flight, leaving me empty of everything I’d clung to before, forcing me to latch on to foreign concepts in fear of drowning, in fear of losing something, or finding something I couldn’t handle. I took what he left me and wanted to run, but I faltered before my foot could lift from the ground.

Silence. Such silence. There were words being spoken, yes. There were even breaths, rhythmic heartbeats, the hum of a sleepless city. I heard those sounds. Silence is what I felt. In that silence, he left me there, bare, reborn.
After the silence, no matter how much I screamed, no matter how many dirty looks, no matter how raw my throat became, no matter how dry my eyes were, I knew he wouldn’t give me a straight answer. No matter how I dressed up the words, the skeletons beneath the cloth was the same. And his answer was, as always, silence.

Why? Why did he take me, then run? Before, when he held my hand, I was sure he’d have stayed, cradled me against his chest and protect me against the natural erosion of living. But here I am, flaking off one nerve at a time, and he just stands there. The same pensive expression on his milky white face. I’m not sure you could really call it an expression. Emotion never touched his features. His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but was something more than a neutral positioning of the mouth.

Why did he take me and run away? God, I wanted to shake him, to start letting into him, cause him some sort of harm, force his face to twist into even a wince. I wanted the satisfaction of knowing I hurt him, of knowing he understood the pain he’d caused me by abandoning me without so much as a word.

Silence. I was met with silence, just as the night we made love. Silence. Not even his heartbeat could calm me. I crumbled into a tearful mess at his feet, pleading now, wanting nothing more than some recognition.

Nothing. He turned, and again, he left me bare, but all the wiser.