s c o t t i e | h u g h e s

Solely writing.
I am a walrus without teeth.

I now have a book for sale!  

message  ·  poetry  ·  smut   ·  mixes
a promise:

There was no spring anymore. A young woman turned around and, in a harsh shutter snap between winter and summer, it was eighty degrees. The sun forgot how to recede and it ribboned around her bare thighs, still snow-coloured. Winter rubbed its eyes, shocked.

The young woman kept a young man. His ceiling fan in his bedroom did not work and his flannel sheets were still on his bed. His hand felt fleshy along the insides of her legs, and as they tangled the hair and lips and wrists and ankles of one another, their skin glided together and apart like  liquid velvet. She closed her eyes and they stayed closed in a flush of marmalade light.

Later they sat in the shadows and drank from a frosted mug. The condensation collected in the mulberry-blushes of his palms, and she flicked cold water on him when he said something mean. His porch collected their promises in sporadic sunlight and she sprawled out before settling under his arm. She had had a tremour in the winter, and told him so. They had told each other enough things that they simply faded into the distant hum of the air conditioner, of cicadas yet to hatch.

The young man stopped rubbing her nose with his and looked at her. She kept an unshot roll of film curled around his iris but never told him about it. She looked back, laid her hand on the side of his face, and they faded into each other. They made a promise with the sync of their lips, and neither of them had to think to keep it anymore. It was too warm to think of nights apart anymore. The winter shook the rain off its jacket and left.

· 82 notes · prose · it's warm · Very Old ·