martini glasses.

of Jon Tyson

The martini glasses fall apart when the wet skins of our bodies touch. My lungs hyperventilate and it shakes the core of my insides. I gasp and your cold, gray eyes look at me. The heated, stubborn gaze replaces the unfaltering kindness earlier. The midnight clock hums forgiveness for not keeping an eye on my curfew. Outside the dark bar, from the windows across your seat, I see the stars bleed pleasure. They whisper into my ears to relish the lust of the night, for tomorrow I can always forget how to breathe. But the stars lack the bond I seek. And in the corner of the universe, I hear the moon cries. Its soft, pleading voice sifts through my mind to tell me to rethink the eagerness. A shock reverberates my veins ad your curls your fingers around my wrist. I gulp the intuition of the false ambiance, but it sticks at the room of my throat. You rub your thumb against my wrist and grin. I can always pretend this is just another irrational drive. But do I ever listen?


Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.


3 thoughts on “martini glasses.

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