The Kind Of Love Letters I write
I started off with a couple of notes from my diary, willing to undress my deepest secrets, thinking you are the only escape left in the world. Wind in my hair and storm in my mind: how I didn't have to be a field of flowers for you. Great stories begin with an even greater adventure; mine was when you smiled at me and I lost control. Maybe, love for me is to be able to like someone that makes you weak. I think I might be in love with your eyes, they speak to me more than you ever did. You kept yourself engulfed in distance, too busy looking for someone to ever notice the way I looked at you. I wanted you as much because the mind directs you, violently & longingly wandering, towards whatever is destroying you. I destroyed a hundred of them too. How everything about you, felt like home and to you I was a foreign language. Hence, I put those letters back in the old drawer for some other time and I wrote this instead.
I love the way your hand shifts from my curves to the edges, the way your silence tells me stories of my deep breaths and how the creases on my bed sheet remind of the last night. There is something so intimidating about the way you look at me, that it makes me want to shift glances. How perfectly do your lips press against my skin at the right places. The kind of letters I write to you are the ones that you read in bed under the sheet, with one hand pressing the paper hard and another between your legs. Your eyes brimming with lust and your arms just as strong as I need, as you taste the words that I write for you. The sound of you on the phone, ever so captivating as you yearn for me more. I'm on the other side with a room full of sighs and marks on my skin but words can't hold everything that we are. I'll always be gentle and hold your hand but tonight is for fucking you. I want to be your own form of escape. Afterall, Ballrooms are for couples. Kitchens are for lovers.