ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The last rays of the sun bled into a scarlet sky, casting long, dancing shadows across the studio floor where we stood. His fingers, dusted with charcoal, traced the line of my jaw with a reverence that stole my breath. I could feel the frantic rhythm of my own heart answering the steady, strong pulse I felt beneath his shirt. Our foreheads rested together, a silent confession in the quiet space between our shared breaths. The scent of turpentine and night-blooming jasmine wove an intoxicating perfume around our suspended moment. His eyes, dark and deep, held mine, reflecting the first emergent stars and a universe of unspoken promises. A soft sigh escaped my lips as his hand slid to the small of my back, drawing me into the safe harbor of his embrace. The world outside, with all its noise and haste, melted into an indistinct blur beyond our moonlit sanctuary. In that endless, tender collision of souls, I felt beautifully, completely known. This was our masterpiece, painted not on canvas, but in the silent language of intertwined hands and beating hearts.
Comments
Post a Comment