Mitchell's Mustard Blog

May 3, 2013

A little something . . .

Filed under: My Work — Tags: , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 11:20 am

The soft sound of her breathing in her sleep worked as an antidepressant for his troubled mind. He always believed that the word ‘love’ was overused by many, he could feel it scratching away at the back of his throat, eager to be heard by the elements. The rise and fall of her chest resembled the waves that crashed against his heart, in time, synchronized to a gold standard. She lay there smiling while she dreamt, dreamt of him he hoped. As he playfully stroked her side her smile increased, he had no intention of waking her but to know that he made her smile gave him a feeling of satisfaction. He held her hand in the warmth under the covers, the hand that played with his hair when he was tired, stroked his cheek as she kissed him. The hand that one day will wear the token of his affection, the token to his future, and his name. He lay there in his morning haze trying to remember the last time he slept in this bed without her warmth, without the delicate imprint she leaves in her pillow. The way she curls the cover under her chin until she slips into slumber, pulling the cover up so his feet felt the cold. He waits until she falls to sleep before he moves the cover back. The ‘love’ word scared him, those petrifying four letters that engulfed your relationship in flames, the kind of flames that lit the way and kept you warm if treated with respect, but burnt you at any given time. Knowing that once she wakes he could stare into her eyes, her eyes that resembled a sunset over the city of London, such beauty that over shadows the confusion and doubt that lays below. He craved this moment but enjoyed the wait.

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