For her. (original) (raw)

I wish I was an artist. I could have been once, when I was young. My father was decent, as was my uncle. The influence was there, but I failed to follow the inkling past idle sketches and failed paintings. The image in my mind of idle fingers tracing the symbols of my affection along the curve of your hips will always leave me with a bittersweet mixture of love and regret. I often wish I had the ability to move that single still frame to paper before I grow old and that memory dies with me. But I can’t.

“What now?” She says, staring into his dark eyes, longing to catch the same swelling of incredible lust in them, as she was sure her own had given…

The man lies alone in the darkness, staring in the direction of the ceiling. There isn’t enough light for him to make anything out, but his eyes are…

Our protagonist lay sleeping on the daybed, having thought he clearly outfoxed his fellows by stealing their weapon bucks. He slept there as his…