As his hands caress my bare skin millions of tiney shivers run through my body.
As I gaze into his eyes I wonder what he is thinking. Is he thinking about me? About the mole just to the left of my finely shaped belly button that I abhor, and want to have removed when I turn 18. The mole he always kisses before he goes down on me. The mole he tries to convice me doesn't matter, and it's the mole that makes me unique. Or is he not thinking about me at all. But rather about the peanut butter jelly sandwich that he always devours when we are done having sex. The possibilities are endless, and undless I break the silence that lingers between us to ask I will never know. And silence at the moment seams to me the better option. It's the type of silence were it is not necessary to talk, but rather to feel. A moment were I know he is looking only at me, a moment were I can pretend as if what he is thinking doesn't matter. Because I know after the sandwich I will come back to reality and remember that even though he shares his body with me, his thoughts are someone else's. |
