An Eternal Place

Thunderstorm woke her up, crashing and shouting on her window. She was not waken up easily by anything. But she didn’t looked bothered after all. She had fall asleep reading not even covered by any blanket, just wearing her underwear and a shirt. She removed her bra magically without removing her shirt. She was cold, but she was happy to be so.

She sits in the bed with her back leaning on the wall. Her hair is all messy and the braces of her shirt fall from her shoulders. Her eyes look somehow greener. Her skin is delicate and pale. She keeps on reading; her eyes change imperceptibly as she reads.

She reads words that remind her of beautiful things. An eternal place out of commitment, out of words that tie. She wonders if she would ever get tired of that feeling she treasures. She wonders how many lives she would need to live to get tired of such amazing and perfect thing. Do ever lust or desire become rust? She stares at the empty space next to her and imagines… and feels, and dreams, and knows the feeling of being in an eternal place. Her fantasies fly there every now and then, though her fantasies are also in her bed, in her pale skin, but most of all in her eyes. There are so many thoughts that can draw lust and desire in her eyes, as they are that draw just an indecipherable beautiful picture. She wishes her fantasies could turn to flesh again, and some day, awakened by another thunderstorm would sit in her bed and, quietly, in her treasured silence, sea of silence, would write about her particular eternal place where nothing exists but that feeling in which she will always believe. A feeling that has no name or dictionary definition.

...I'll violate you in the most sensual way...
-"It's All Tears", HIM

[Inspiration: "The Favourite Game", Leonard Cohen. Book II, chapter 9.]