I’m scratching my pen against the soft skin of the white paper.
The ink doesn’t sputter around and only stays intact into its tip. I continue to drag the tip, occasionally placing pressure that it almost tears the paper, until I form an imagination.
You place your chin on my shoulder as you peek to my elusive activity. There is a slight tremble from your chin and it shakes my shoulder down to my toes.
“It’s like two faces with their lips almost touching.”
It’s almost evening when I look at the clock. I have to be home by seven.
“I have to go.”
I snatch my messenger bag and leave my sketch pad, but keep my pen. I turn the knob of your door when I hear your voice.
“You haven’t told me its story yet.”
I tightly clutch the door knob.
I hope you didn’t ask.
I hope you won’t know.
“It’s a history of two faces, never having the perfect time to feel perfect.”
The cool breeze of the December night greets my heated face when I exit your apartment and close the door.
WORD COUNT: 188
Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.