Jun 8, 2014, 11:15 PM

Chamomile tea love 

  Prose » Erotic
2156 0 0
2 мин reading

In some days her love is like a chamomile tea...
she make him relaxed, feel melted, peaceful.

In days like this they spend the day in  bed –
kissing and caressing, hugging observing their peaceful faces and bodies.
Listening to nice music. Sometimes he will stand up and play piano for her,
while she, naked in bed observing him secretly,
with her eyes touching his skin, looking very concentrate how every muscle of his arms and beck in moving while he is playing.
In the old house full with ghosts, with old pictures on the walls that observed the naked girl  in the bed and the boy playing piano… A melody of his far away country. Melody that brings him home in  happy days, far away from that strangers house, that foreigner country,  far away of that girl in the bed that he don't know what to do with.
His music is  a bridge between countries, between languages, nations, religions… is a way to escape, to be back where he wants to be.
The music is a door he opens for her to follow him, is an invitation for her, for her naked body and soul… is a door opened for both of them.
She is taking slowly his hand and asks him to come in bed. She wants to close the door and not go behind it. Maybe is scary there, here in bed in the white bed sheets is more save. She knows what to do to  please him.
Dear boy, you are another book for her, another white page. Not a lover, or boyfriend or husband but just another page and your music is just a background for her story…
Yes, she saw what was behind the door. She saw the green fields of your village and the beautiful dancing woman and she felt your presence in all this… 
But she wanted to come back in the white bed sheets of the bed, in the small room of the old house,  just to give you what you wanted to have...   from the beginning...
--------------------------
In some days her love is like a coffee, dark and bitter, make him excited and anxious…
In some days her love in like a chamomile tea, just drink her love until it ends cause all eventually ends…
All ends.
Just music stays forever in the air… and the fields, the green fields of his home village…waiting for him they are always there waiting for him to come home…

© Поля Христова All rights reserved.

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