Reposting: good morning
Oct. 20th, 2008 09:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
like_a_ravenFrom October, 2005, 455 words.
good morning
She is asleep, her head pillowed on his chest, her arm flung across him, her hand resting on one of his shoulders, her hair tumbled over the other. She smiles, as she dreams, but does not stir.
He has not slept this night, preferring to watch her, to occasionally touch his lips to her forehead, or run his hand, as gently as possible, down her back, across the curve of her side, as if he cannot quite believe she is here and real, or as if to be this close to her and not touch her were impossible.
She does not wake, when he touches her, but once, as a single finger lightly traces the path of her spine, she shivers and moves somehow nearer, closing the barely perceptible gap between them, and seems to sigh.
He brings his arm around across her back, his hand coming around to rest on her waist, to keep her as close as he can, still marveling at the feel of her, the look of her skin in the moonlight, the smell of her, the sound of her breath, and, clearest of all in his mind, though only memory at the moment, the way she tastes, sweet and sharp and pure and rich and right.
She wakens only when the daylight begins to slip in through the eastern window, casting the bed into brightness and shadows. She does not so much open her eyes as let her eyelids drift up, and though she has never woken here before, she knows where she is, and why, and with whom, and her smile grows, but she still does not stir.
He knows, however, the instant she awakes, whether from the slight shift of her hair on his shoulder, or the subtle change in her breathing, or simply the fact that he is at this moment more aware of her than he is of even himself. And so he whispers into the hair at the crown of her head, good morning.
She moves her head just enough to look up and into his eyes, her fingers leaving his shoulder and going up to tangle in his hair. She means to return the greeting, but her breath and her voice seem to catch in her chest, and good morning seems so absurdly inadequate that she says nothing.
He smiles at her, his free hand coming up to trace the line of her cheek and her jaw, down her neck to her shoulders, and he discovers or fancies that he can feel her pulse quicken as his fingers brush the hollow of her throat. Close to her ear he repeats, good morning.
And then her mouth finds his, and words are no longer necessary.
good morning
She is asleep, her head pillowed on his chest, her arm flung across him, her hand resting on one of his shoulders, her hair tumbled over the other. She smiles, as she dreams, but does not stir.
He has not slept this night, preferring to watch her, to occasionally touch his lips to her forehead, or run his hand, as gently as possible, down her back, across the curve of her side, as if he cannot quite believe she is here and real, or as if to be this close to her and not touch her were impossible.
She does not wake, when he touches her, but once, as a single finger lightly traces the path of her spine, she shivers and moves somehow nearer, closing the barely perceptible gap between them, and seems to sigh.
He brings his arm around across her back, his hand coming around to rest on her waist, to keep her as close as he can, still marveling at the feel of her, the look of her skin in the moonlight, the smell of her, the sound of her breath, and, clearest of all in his mind, though only memory at the moment, the way she tastes, sweet and sharp and pure and rich and right.
She wakens only when the daylight begins to slip in through the eastern window, casting the bed into brightness and shadows. She does not so much open her eyes as let her eyelids drift up, and though she has never woken here before, she knows where she is, and why, and with whom, and her smile grows, but she still does not stir.
He knows, however, the instant she awakes, whether from the slight shift of her hair on his shoulder, or the subtle change in her breathing, or simply the fact that he is at this moment more aware of her than he is of even himself. And so he whispers into the hair at the crown of her head, good morning.
She moves her head just enough to look up and into his eyes, her fingers leaving his shoulder and going up to tangle in his hair. She means to return the greeting, but her breath and her voice seem to catch in her chest, and good morning seems so absurdly inadequate that she says nothing.
He smiles at her, his free hand coming up to trace the line of her cheek and her jaw, down her neck to her shoulders, and he discovers or fancies that he can feel her pulse quicken as his fingers brush the hollow of her throat. Close to her ear he repeats, good morning.
And then her mouth finds his, and words are no longer necessary.
