You see, she’s a tantalising puzzle: a girl who’s gorgeous, erudite, modest and low-maintenance. Now if she’d just go and get me a beer …. I jest!
Yesterday I had a moment, a fleeting moment, where I wish I could have kissed you and nothing more. Well, perhaps to have your arms snake over my shoulders as you drew closer. Yet that would be my only “indulgence”. Now is not the time to coddle your ill-gotten spoils borne on platters. Take them away. Come to me, your hands bare, so that I might only clasp them tenderly in promise … And my thoughts have been bent on it since.
It’s endearing of you to think of me so. I hope that means this mysterious vignette is far from complete.
Here I am, sitting at my desk, watching the ink melt on the page while flecks of easterly rain converge and dribble miserably down the window. I’m mulling over your recent words as I toy with the pen between my fingers. Is it some kind of backhanded compliment to say that, yet you do not wish to be drawn to my words? You resent our circumstance, but when I offer to change it, you dismiss me with polite declination. Yet a heartbeat before you felt breathless? There is only one honest reply: touché, mademoiselle, touché.
I began these three most recent blogs with a quote from JRR Tolkien. It seems fitting that I should end with one.
And a kiss for your forehead, dear one.
Yesterday I had a moment, a fleeting moment, where I wish I could have kissed you and nothing more. Well, perhaps to have your arms snake over my shoulders as you drew closer. Yet that would be my only “indulgence”. Now is not the time to coddle your ill-gotten spoils borne on platters. Take them away. Come to me, your hands bare, so that I might only clasp them tenderly in promise … And my thoughts have been bent on it since.
It’s endearing of you to think of me so. I hope that means this mysterious vignette is far from complete.
Here I am, sitting at my desk, watching the ink melt on the page while flecks of easterly rain converge and dribble miserably down the window. I’m mulling over your recent words as I toy with the pen between my fingers. Is it some kind of backhanded compliment to say that, yet you do not wish to be drawn to my words? You resent our circumstance, but when I offer to change it, you dismiss me with polite declination. Yet a heartbeat before you felt breathless? There is only one honest reply: touché, mademoiselle, touché.
I began these three most recent blogs with a quote from JRR Tolkien. It seems fitting that I should end with one.
Is it not a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt for so small a thing?
And a kiss for your forehead, dear one.