Cotton

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4 responses to “Cotton

  1. stewartparker

    Waking with a start, one arm all pins and needles (slept on), eyes afraid to open, mouth like musky cotton. What was the dream? What was the dream? A man. A gun. A shot through the hand. The world viewed through this new, flesh-rimmed periscope, more burning than pain, more silence than scream. The drowning, under-liquid slowness of paralyzed escape. Never caught, but never safe. Panicked tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump. A silent, stranger’s sleeping back, the only comfort for miles, rising almost imperceptibly. Up and down. Up then down. Darkness pours and pours and pours through the glass. Then slowly, slowly, darkens. Then greys. And then the phone rings…

  2. memory ghost

    THE TOUCH,
    THE FEEL,
    OF COTTON…

    Paper thin,
    Warmed by skin,
    Without,
    Beneath.
    Translucent veil,
    Of propriety,
    Whispering down,
    whispering down.
    One final obstacle,
    Between restraint,
    And reprieve.

    THE FABRIC OF OUR LIVES.

  3. bed of lamb 666

    He turned the heat higher on the iron, exhausting the steam with a damning press of his thumb. The cotton shirt, heavy with its fibers and history, resisted with its usual stoic wrinkles. These wrinkles had no story of their own; rather, they clung with desperation. They belonged to the cotton, and the cotton was unforgiving.

    “Your shirt is so soft,” she whispered in a smile, rubbing a concerned hand over his chest and shoulders. He kissed her. It was a long time since he had last tried to kiss like he cared.

    He knew where this could end. Their kisses clung to each other with desperation, although it was the desperation of a wrinkle; just holding onto someone else’s story.

    The shirt slipped to the floor, with hours to pass and more wrinkles to accumulate, to be washed, ironed, and then forgotten.

  4. Reblogged this on The Writer's Block and commented:

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