A Woman Who Loves Another Woman

A Woman Who Loves Another Woman Is Forever Young

They say that a woman who loves another woman is forever young. Perhaps that’s why it feels like spring in your embrace, even as everything around us decays and rots. Or that’s why the color of the lust in your brazen black eyes reminds me of the man who sold balloons in our alley. It seems like no time has passed.

You plant lazy kisses along my jawline that feel like candy dissolving in my mouth. The hem of your skirt resembles that of the schoolgirls I knew, shielding their knees from the glances of the boys. But I always caught a glimpse of their creamy thighs—a view to thank million gods for.

To love a woman is to play with fire. Yet I don’t mind the occasional burns and bruises. To come undone in the hands of a woman is oddly like joining together the last pieces of a puzzle. Your supple fingers stroke my back as if you were slowly trailing your fingers along piano keys; your lingering touches make me hit octaves that even respected pianists cannot.

You step back, to admire, possibly, the mess that you have made out of my existence. Your black locks look like a cascading waterfall, and in my mind’s eye, they take me back to a monsoon trek. I was twelve and I thought that the waterfall was almost the eighth wonder of this world. Yet as your hands snake southwards, careful to caress every inch of me, just like the water taunted the boulders back then, this is the beautiful sight that I can get used to.

Your tongue seeks its way, slowly, savoring each sensation. With every jolt of passion that courses through my veins, you take me back to a time when love was a foreign concoction.

To love a woman is to willingly embrace your ruin. It’s like standing at the edge of the cliff and jumping into the unknown, which is quite similar to the way I dive into the valley of your lush breasts. There is not a single wrinkle on your smooth, almost-ironed skin, but there will be someday. We do not have the time to worry about it today.

As your fingers plunge deeper, I sing songs from faraway lands. The cruelty in your rhythm is unmistakable and with each thrust, I croon a note higher than before. Your tongue flicks for the last time before you sigh against my thigh. It’s a sigh very similar to the one that escaped your throat years ago when my tongue found you under the sheets for the very first time. Thought Catalog Logo Mark