memoirs in bitter red (I)

[…] the first woman i ever loved had long hair and fractured dreams. her movements sounded like the turned pages of a book. there was something about her, something similar to the frailness of printed paper, and her smell, although so different than the one of ink, aroused me just the same. i never touched her. not with my hands anyway. but many nights knew the assumed texture of her skin and many smiles hid silent moans. the first woman i ever loved was young and looked good in red. she looked even better in nothing, but that’s another story – she was too busy with her summer and i loved too much the taste of the distance between us to rid her of dramas. besides, i was afraid. afraid that, if i taught her fire, my icy shell would fall apart in her presence, and the last thing i wanted was to voice out my smallness. the first woman i ever loved was only the first – but all the others who followed her sheltered in their being some tiny word from her book. they all rhymed somehow. she, however, was rhymeless. […]

© 2015 L. N.

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