literature

Words

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Literature Text

"Your fingers taste like cigarettes." Her tongue curled around the tip of his index finger, sucking the essence of ashes off. The nighttime sky was black, stars hidden behind the cover of clouds that had rolled in that afternoon. It was quiet and warm, bugs creeping in through the cheap windows and skittering around on the computer screen, as crickets tried in vain to drown out the soft piano in the speakers.

Her lips were swollen with kisses and his were buzzing with menthol, shared and given. Two tired hands held each other, while she held his unoccupied fingers in her mouth. The digital clock next to the books on the nightstand had reached the familiar single digits of the late-night mornings.

They could sleep when the sun came up, because as long as such silent darkness was over them, the night was theirs, and they belonged to each other. There was no worry of tomorrows and yesterdays, and love could never break their hearts again.

Watching candles burn and insects flicker, they spoke their promises with their hands, a language of kisses and entangled bodies. Breaths passed between them, sharing the stuff of souls like oxygen. The "I love you"s whispered across flushed skin were only an afterthought to what had been known all along.


It wasn't the words that mattered. It was the wordless vow that proved they didn't need to.
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