Just before his lips could reach hers, she turns away.
He sighs her name against her ear, his voice full of desire and frustration, his breath hot on her neck.
He could feel her tremble under his hands, gently caressing her arms. Then as if this moment never happened, he reluclantly released her as the door opened behind them.
I’m not dead. Not yet anyways.
But I’ve been working hard on life, work and my book, that already has two drafts though still unfinished.
The problem with me, is I like to edit and if I didn’t have deadlines in my work, I’d probably keep editing the articles until I reach perfection…i.e…I’ll edit forever.
But next month promises to be full of experiences; I’ll travel a lot and hopefully it will help me get some inspiration and find the right route for my book.
I’ve also kept my resolution and started reading outside my comfort zone. The Strain by Guillermo del Toro and Chuck Hogan is definitely NOT something I would normally read. The vampire horror book set in our days is quite good actually. I have to admit it took a couple of pages to adapt to the writer(s) style; some phrases and words in sentence were used in a very strange context. But it’s a fast read and once you get used to, it’s a pretty good thriller.
Before I leave you and disappear again in books and writing, here are few lines excerpt of the book I’m writing. It doesn’t give away anything really, but I can feel the emotions between the words and letters of these lines. And this is also what I’m trying to achieve; put felt emotions in words.
Or maybe I just feel them because of February and Valentine’s Day.
Yeah that’s probably it.
She leans against his chest and he wraps his arms around her, gently stroking the back of her neck with his fingertips. When she lifts her head, he keeps his eyes fixed in hers as he gently slides the coat from her shoulders and caresses her bare arms.
Until next time.
I found these two excerpts I wrote about love one year ago. They are really tiny, but found myself smiling as I read them.
And remember “Love is a promise; love is a souvenir, once given never forgotten, never let it disappear.” – John Lennon
“Lying on a bench, with my head resting on his laps. Me reading a book, he smoking a cigarette. Then, with his finger, he started making small circles around my navel. I pretended I didn’t feel the first, the second, the third circle that were instead burning my skin. I pretended I was absorbed in my book. I don’t remember how many times I read that first line of the page. Now that I think about it I don’t even remember the title of the book. I only remember the seven circles he craved on my skin before he kissed me.”
“He kissed me on the forehead, on the cheek, on the lips biting them softly. And when he stopped, he stopped the air from existing and the my heart from beating. It was then, that I started kissing him…”
I didn’t envy her.
I just wished to have what she had.
And being around her, seemed my only chance.
And gave me the illusion, I could also have it all.
But in the end, being around her made me realize I never quite liked her.
Now I don’t have her friends.
I don’t have her love.
And I don’t have her life.
I have nothing. But it’s all mine.
Have you ever experienced extreme love? The kind of love that you cannot live without. That no matter what you do, you are not good enough.
This is my love toward writing. I’m obsessed with writing but no matter how I try to explain it, I’m too banal, uncreative and repetitive. My flaws are enhanced and freshly created; weak vocabulary, confusing style, uncategorized.
So I stop. I take a break and when I think I’m ready to start again, I have that idea that could save us. It starts over again. My love is too oppressing that I lose focus of what I want to try to express and the fear of failing keeps invading my mind. I start losing faith and pray for a miracle that I know will never come.
My love is tormented, mad, incurable. But my love stands still, as when I’m not writing all I can think of is writing. Strong and will never give up.
With one kiss she healed all his wounds.
He took a deep breath. Nothing hurt anymore; breathing, and his face full of bruises, were healed.
The grey sky darkened.
With stupor and surprise, both for the kiss and the healing, he put his hand behind her neck and kissed her.
“Stay.” He whispered.
“I love you … ” she said faintly, kissed him again and without looking back jumped in the hole.