touch
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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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The mangos are nestled in separate padded hollows, the market stand only a few feet wide. I gently pick one up, inhaling the glorious juicy aroma. I close my eyes, and stand for a few long seconds, allowing the scent to transport me back.
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The room is already mostly full of serious looking females, seated on their single-wheeled bicycles.
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It’s good to be home. I very much relish the periods of time I spend in my oasis of comfort.
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I stand at his kitchen island, wearing his slippers and a white v neck tee.
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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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Tendrils of hair dip into the water, and I slide down to submerge my breasts, enjoying the wet heat of the water.
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The toast is warm and the butter melts quickly as I spread it slowly with the knife.
Soul Journal 