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There is a particular kind of intimacy that only arrives with winter. The world quiets, the nights stretch. And somewhere between dusk and dawn, the bed becomes a landscape of longing—of warmth, breath, and slow-drifting dreams. Enter: flannel sheets. Not the scratchy, inexpensive kind. I mean the good ones. Brushed cotton with a weight that
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I sniff my arm, investigating, and realise that I can smell my recent lover on my forearm.
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Have you ever picked up on that undertone of eroticism when in the company of others?
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He shifts a little, rubs his unshaven chin. His glance flickers from the current speaker to my thighs, and back again. I try not to notice.
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He, pacing backwards and around, trying to control the level of his voice and the strong urge he had to push her up against the brick wall a few metres away and kiss her passionately.
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The toast is warm and the butter melts quickly as I spread it slowly with the knife.
Soul Journal 