From an in-class writing prompt in Honors Colloquium II:
When I think of love, I think of his taste in music, and bouncing to the same songs while in different rooms engaged in different tasks. I think of him dancing across the living room while I die of laughter on his couch. I think of listening to his thoughts regarding his day and of his interest in amusing anecdotes from my classes, not because he gives a shit about Composition or because I know anything about communications equipment, but because he gives a shit about me and because anything involving him is interesting to me. I think of his appreciation when I make dinner and of his ham-n-Brie sandwiches. I think of lightly scratching his back while we’re lying in bed.
When I think of love, I think of the taste of his mouth after my orgasm, the flavors of us mingling alongside our tongues. I think of the feel of his back muscles under my hands, his knees trembling, his firm shoulder between my teeth as I come, and the sound he makes when I take him into my mouth. I think of his skin, cologne, and cigarettes blending to make a heady scent, the noise he makes in the back of his throat when a character makes a clever comment, and my breasts against his back at 90 miles per hour. I think of his humorously scathing commentary on everyday life, his vocabulary, his taste in literature and design, his smooth hands and lyrical voice, and the way that I enjoy all of these things today.
When I think of love, I think of his tattoos ending severely on his wrists and collar bone, rendering them invisible under his uniform. I think of the guttural notes of another language in his throat, and the flapping sound made when he turns a page on his wall calendar. I think of the taste of sorrow, which is sharp and metallic, and not unlike the smell of lead. I think of the chill of the mountains, the heat of the desert, and the sound a jet makes as it flies away, leaving a hazy white contrail in it's wake. I think of the electrical smell of a red Sharpie, marking the days until I don't think of love.
When I think of love, I think of his taste in music, and bouncing to the same songs while in different rooms engaged in different tasks. I think of him dancing across the living room while I die of laughter on his couch. I think of listening to his thoughts regarding his day and of his interest in amusing anecdotes from my classes, not because he gives a shit about Composition or because I know anything about communications equipment, but because he gives a shit about me and because anything involving him is interesting to me. I think of his appreciation when I make dinner and of his ham-n-Brie sandwiches. I think of lightly scratching his back while we’re lying in bed.
When I think of love, I think of the taste of his mouth after my orgasm, the flavors of us mingling alongside our tongues. I think of the feel of his back muscles under my hands, his knees trembling, his firm shoulder between my teeth as I come, and the sound he makes when I take him into my mouth. I think of his skin, cologne, and cigarettes blending to make a heady scent, the noise he makes in the back of his throat when a character makes a clever comment, and my breasts against his back at 90 miles per hour. I think of his humorously scathing commentary on everyday life, his vocabulary, his taste in literature and design, his smooth hands and lyrical voice, and the way that I enjoy all of these things today.
When I think of love, I think of his tattoos ending severely on his wrists and collar bone, rendering them invisible under his uniform. I think of the guttural notes of another language in his throat, and the flapping sound made when he turns a page on his wall calendar. I think of the taste of sorrow, which is sharp and metallic, and not unlike the smell of lead. I think of the chill of the mountains, the heat of the desert, and the sound a jet makes as it flies away, leaving a hazy white contrail in it's wake. I think of the electrical smell of a red Sharpie, marking the days until I don't think of love.
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