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she said: love the boy who paints. And I think of your hands. Your hands with fingers like Grecian pillars stretching across the divot between my hip bone and my bellybutton your palms that were shockingly dry but extraordinarily smooth cupped around my ******* while you slept, a single foot peeking through my calves, your sweat seeping through my cotton shirt a drawn out b r e a t h So, love a boy who paints and think of his hands the only things that you can remember vividly all the things he did with those fingers during *The Kids are Alright* but it's not your oil on his skin anymore and someone else loves that boy who paints.
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Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
Who Paints.
she said: love the boy who paints. And I think of your hands. Your hands with fingers like Grecian pillars stretching across the divot between my hip bone and my bellybutton your palms that were shockingly dry but extraordinarily smooth cupped around my ******* while you slept, a single foot peeking through my calves, your sweat seeping through my cotton shirt a drawn out b r e a t h So, love a boy who paints and think of his hands the only things that you can remember vividly all the things he did with those fingers during *The Kids are Alright* but it's not your oil on his skin anymore and someone else loves that boy who paints.
(c) Brooke Otto 2014.
broooke
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broooke
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
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