[ Which she will; wanting for the moment, as he does, to simply breathe shared air. To linger in each touch of lips like she walks through the halls of a gallery, that slow pace that means she has all the time she could want to experience the art displayed for her.
It is art, in a way. Her kind. Spaces wide and beautiful by their nature; their light, their wind. It is always summer in her paintings. Not the sultry evenings, but the clarity and quiet of early morning. The slanting sunlight later in the season. Ripe wheat, flowers in full bloom, the light making verdant Serault glass of the leaves.
It is like this in her heart. With her fingers spread at the side of his face— their tips delicate at his ear, along his jawline— she kisses him like summer.
no subject
It is art, in a way. Her kind. Spaces wide and beautiful by their nature; their light, their wind. It is always summer in her paintings. Not the sultry evenings, but the clarity and quiet of early morning. The slanting sunlight later in the season. Ripe wheat, flowers in full bloom, the light making verdant Serault glass of the leaves.
It is like this in her heart. With her fingers spread at the side of his face— their tips delicate at his ear, along his jawline— she kisses him like summer.