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The Secret

Former MemberFormer Member Posts: 1,876,324 The Mix Honorary Guru
Short one written with the aid of a very satisfying joint. :)

We have nothing to say to each other that couldn't be said in glances and hands clutched with clenched fingers upon the tabletop.

I have a secret. Can you feel it? It resonates, shrill and vocal, in golden lines that shiver from my skin. Gold is precious. So is my secret. My mind holds it, clutched between clasped hands, taking hesitant peeps between interlocked fingers. I feel it fluttering there, its feathery edges bat the edges of my thoughts, tickling my mind to shivers. More than once it nearly escaped, but I caught it, trying to flee from my tongue. It is a wily thing. Fleeting. Sometimes it tries to write itself, creeping along to the tips of my fingers, trying to lodge itself in the curve of the nib of the pen that carves along the page.

I try to dilute it with other thoughts, crowding round, many hands all pressing all gagging, but the more that gather round, the less I can ignore. That little pensive patter, chattering at me, coaxing me, guilding my memories - perhaps this is not so secret, perhaps this feeling, this metallic resonation cold and brilliant should be shared. But then the words touch my toungue, and however glittering, dazzling the secret becomes, I can already feel that tanged, bitter aftertaste slide across my tongue. It shan't escape me. Not until I touch you, press your lips against mine and feel it opening, blossoming at the bloom of your breath; butterflying from my mouth to yours.

We have nothing to say to each other that couldn't be said in glances and hands clutched with clenched fingers upon the tabletop.

I have a secret. Can you feel it? It resonates, shrill and vocal, in golden lines that shiver from my skin. Gold is precious. So is my secret. My mind holds it, clutched between clasped hands, taking hesitant peeps between interlocked fingers. I feel it fluttering there, its feathery edges bat the edges of my thoughts, tickling my mind to shivers. More than once it nearly escaped, but I caught it, trying to flee from my tongue. It is a wily thing. Fleeting. Sometimes it tries to write itself, creeping along to the tips of my fingers, trying to lodge itself in the curve of the nib of the pen that carves along the page.

I try to dilute it with other thoughts, crowding round, many hands all pressing all gagging, but the more that gather round, the less I can ignore. That little pensive patter, chattering at me, coaxing me, guilding my memories - perhaps this is not so secret, perhaps this feeling, this metallic resonation cold and brilliant should be shared. But then the words touch my toungue, and however glittering, dazzling the secret becomes, I can already feel that tanged, bitter aftertaste slide across my tongue. It shan't escape me. Not until I touch you, press your lips against mine and feel it opening, blossoming at the bloom of your breath; butterflying from my mouth to yours.
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