The most beautiful masterpiece I’ve ever written, was on you, for you. I remember the day vividly, as I begged you to keep still and try not to laugh.
My pen moved on your flawless brown skin, as you lay naked, facing me. My hands were trembling, but I tried to write as neatly and clearly as I possibly could. The day was cold, but you were stripped naked, an aftermath of the intense love making we had just been through.
Your stomach moved up and down, as you pushed shallow breaths in and out. You were determined to keep still and watch me at work, what could I have written? My mind was blank. My hand, however, seemed to have a mind on its own, as it moved trembling, yet freely, on your skin, writing away.
Your stare was piercing, and in more ways than one, seductive. Your brown eyes were glassy, as you stared at my hand, that kept moving non-stop on your skin. Why did you ask me to write on you?
I used my pen, you as my paper. I scribbled away, and soon the words I wrote merged and became a beautiful paragraph. I was shocked when I read it, I didn’t know I felt so strongly about you. You were shocked too, but after the shock wore off, I watched as your eyes looked at me with admiration and newfound love.
Your brown and slender fingers ran through the writing on your beautiful thigh, I watched as your lips parted and you broke into a huge smile.
You were a reader, I am a writer, it was a match made in Literature heaven. I remember how you’d scrutinize, analyze and proofread my work like some sort of novel critic. I hung on your every word, I valued your opinion, I still do.
You’d sit on the bed, a joint in your left hand, and my rough drafts on the other. I often wondered how you made sane decisions, while high, but you never got it wrong, so who am I to question your capabilities? I loved watching you read my work, the way you’d exclaim, shout or get angry, when your favorite character got dealt the wrong way.
Writers block? I heard that word from you, I had been so stressed for weeks, and I couldn’t draft anything. I couldn’t turn alphabets into words and words into sentences, and sentences into paragraphs. You stood behind me, hands on my shoulders, then asked me to calm down. Your soothing voice, made it easy to listen. You told me all about writers block, and how I could release all the stress and tension. You gave me the best fuck of my life, I doubt thats how writers dealt with their blocks though? Anyway, I wasnt complaining!
You had to leave, it was too good to be true, anyways. We couldn’t have it all. We couldn’t have the love, happiness and the mindset all in one. I still remember, though, the masterpiece I wrote on you, and somehow, I know you still do.