(She asked to read something I wrote about her, so I sent her this. 🐥🐠)
Added 2019-12-06 14:29:21 +0000 UTC“A bird may love a fish, but where would they live?”
I try not to overthink it. It’s easy to ignore when her hands are all over me and I’m breathless. Her arms around me, inked and strong, remind me there are birds who dive under water and fly beneath the waves. Birds that can hold their breath, birds whose feathers repel the water and keep their bodies warm, birds who flap their wings against the current and go deeper. I can’t help but fall deeper.
She pulls me closer, I breathe her in, I’m drunk on her freckled cheekbones and her sage green eyes. We’re both out of our element. She pushes my soft thighs wider apart and worships them sincerely, I sigh. There are 64 species of fish that can fly, pushing out of the water with their fins, turning them into wings, escaping whatever lurks beneath. I want her, more than the air and more than the sea, I want this place where I’m hers and she’s mine. It doesn’t have to make sense, I just feel it. She feels it too.
There are bigger questions, bigger fears, but they melt away when my legs are wrapped around her and I’m gazing into her eyes. My finger tips graze the back of her neck and she kisses me, my nerves settle. “We have lots of time,” she says, time is my currency. A fish may love a bird, and a bird may love a fish. Rules break when love feels electric. I grind my hips against her, her belt buckle is sharp but I press harder, I want to feel her there tomorrow, no matter where we live.
