“A filigranic rubber-twisting kid. You couldn’t take your eyes off of him, he moved as if he was from a different specie.”
Not a cute card or a kissogram. [….]
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.
There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.
As if it’s happening silently. Hands passing calmly under sweaters. Feeling the smooth breathing skin under it.
“Only a big yellow dog had mercy on me – humbly walked up to me and ate up my heart, taking his time. Then he left, moving away towards the horizon like an enormous sun flower”. (Doina Ioanid)
The brow was indeed quite grossly spread up. When awake. rarely down. Though it’s the left eye. A very sketchy hint to otherwise quite obvious shadows. So it’s surprising it’s not turned down more often. But maybe the wind. Or the light touches. Whomever’s.
A languid tongue face lick! That’s what I’d have given that woman had I been in Rox’s place. As she was so closely shoved in their bosoms that it was beyond embrace.
A man standing on his head on the beach with legs spread up – “Ce frumooos, ca o floricica!” – is NOT a flower. In spite of the apparent anatomically correct disposition of parts.