Ersa
Witty whispers
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2020
- Location
- Somewhere behind the gossamer veil
To awake from a dreamless slumber and discover such a gift awaiting me was the most thrilling experience. Words can move one's heart. How shall I reply to such a gift? It is strange you feel so close, yet our distance is not defined. My manicured fingers graze over the keys of my laptop with the gentleness of a pianist touching the ivory and ebony of a grand piano.
As I sit at my desk, the office is brightly lit and decorated with furnishings I have not chosen but are most fitting for such a space. A desk of wood, antique in age. What stories could it tell if it could speak? Space for parchment and ink with quills of metal and feather. Draws locked and unlocked once filled with secrets now housed bits of notes and schedules. Scratches that could tell tales of anger and strife or perhaps heartbreak and loss. Who sat here before me? Before the technology of computers and keys. What words were written here? Laws, memoirs, letters to a friend or foe, maybe even a lover or two. Drawn out days and sleepless nights, it is the most fitting place for me now.
Our world, though formless, bright as this room yet void of all its decor and regalia, has yet to be built. Shall we start at home, in an office, or meet at a cafe or nightclub? The places we could go and the people we become are endless possibilities.
An innocent kiss. You leave me with such a gift. It was a simple kiss, yet powerful enough to sway me. How odd since we are but strangers. I imagine those hands; would they be firm yet gentle? Your skin, what scent would linger on them? Something masculine and spiced or fresh and clean, void of perfumes. Is your hair so short I cannot grab hold of it? Would those eyes gaze into my soul or look past me? I imagine your voice. Does it have a low baritone that chides me gently? Or a peal of deep laughter that reddens my cheeks.
Your lips pressed to mine, soft and pillowy. The pout naturally formed. The taste of tea on my lips. A slight sweetness from the sweetener. Your fingers to my skin. The cold digits feel refreshing to my warmed facade.
My image for you is but a young woman. Not so young that she is new to life and the world but not so old that realities jade her. Skin kissed by sunlight, golden and tawny. Average in height, with a womanly build ripe for childbearing but soft and delicate as an unplucked rose. My hair falls to my hips in waves, and curls of chestnut fade into a silvery grey at the edges. Hazel's eyes are bright with new curiosities, constantly seeking knowledge and wishing to learn more.
I await you again. Where shall we start? I play the part of a mailable lover. Craving and needing to please and be pleased by her lover. Shall I make you a cup of coffee? Or assist in buttoning up your shirt as you get ready in the morning. Shall we have breakfast? Or is it a weekend, and we can lounge around the house? Is it warm outside or cold? I wish to lay in bed with you. My head onto your chest as I read aloud from novels of unknown names and authors strangers. My hair tickles your skin. The warmth of sunlight shining through the windows cast its light onto our skin.
The dance between you and I has yet to begin, and here, I can only look forward to it with the excitement of the unknown.
As I sit at my desk, the office is brightly lit and decorated with furnishings I have not chosen but are most fitting for such a space. A desk of wood, antique in age. What stories could it tell if it could speak? Space for parchment and ink with quills of metal and feather. Draws locked and unlocked once filled with secrets now housed bits of notes and schedules. Scratches that could tell tales of anger and strife or perhaps heartbreak and loss. Who sat here before me? Before the technology of computers and keys. What words were written here? Laws, memoirs, letters to a friend or foe, maybe even a lover or two. Drawn out days and sleepless nights, it is the most fitting place for me now.
Our world, though formless, bright as this room yet void of all its decor and regalia, has yet to be built. Shall we start at home, in an office, or meet at a cafe or nightclub? The places we could go and the people we become are endless possibilities.
An innocent kiss. You leave me with such a gift. It was a simple kiss, yet powerful enough to sway me. How odd since we are but strangers. I imagine those hands; would they be firm yet gentle? Your skin, what scent would linger on them? Something masculine and spiced or fresh and clean, void of perfumes. Is your hair so short I cannot grab hold of it? Would those eyes gaze into my soul or look past me? I imagine your voice. Does it have a low baritone that chides me gently? Or a peal of deep laughter that reddens my cheeks.
Your lips pressed to mine, soft and pillowy. The pout naturally formed. The taste of tea on my lips. A slight sweetness from the sweetener. Your fingers to my skin. The cold digits feel refreshing to my warmed facade.
My image for you is but a young woman. Not so young that she is new to life and the world but not so old that realities jade her. Skin kissed by sunlight, golden and tawny. Average in height, with a womanly build ripe for childbearing but soft and delicate as an unplucked rose. My hair falls to my hips in waves, and curls of chestnut fade into a silvery grey at the edges. Hazel's eyes are bright with new curiosities, constantly seeking knowledge and wishing to learn more.
I await you again. Where shall we start? I play the part of a mailable lover. Craving and needing to please and be pleased by her lover. Shall I make you a cup of coffee? Or assist in buttoning up your shirt as you get ready in the morning. Shall we have breakfast? Or is it a weekend, and we can lounge around the house? Is it warm outside or cold? I wish to lay in bed with you. My head onto your chest as I read aloud from novels of unknown names and authors strangers. My hair tickles your skin. The warmth of sunlight shining through the windows cast its light onto our skin.
The dance between you and I has yet to begin, and here, I can only look forward to it with the excitement of the unknown.