Creative Writing Love

A Curveball

Who’d have thought my eyes would see something this fine at a grocery store?

Those dimples, and that dick print so shy.

It was when you looked at me and wink did I imagine our future before us.

Making you breakfast after a night of sweaty and passionate love making; giving you a kiss with smeared lipstick — a taste that we both love.

Top down and cruising in an Alfa Romeo down the highway, my hand between your thighs, and playing a concerto with my lips on yours.

We could do this forever, can’t we?

But here we are: fuck life and its curveballs.

It was when she placed her lips on yours did it hit me that you were never meant to be mine.

Creative Writing Love

Sometime Summer

At least there’s a hand to hold.

That’s what I thought.

Holding his hand was comfort enough.

Imagine hitting 100 and having no hand to hold when you breathed your last.

The sad part is that this is the 3rd hand I’m holding.

The third pair of lips I’ve kissed.

But my Sometime Summer is no more.

Every season draws to a close.

And now it’s my turn to have endless chats under the sycamore tree by myself until I breathe no more.

Creative Writing Love

A Tender-Hearted Moment

Come sit between my legs.

Lay your head on my shoulder.

We have now, and that’s all we got.

The future is bleak and dark.

But today is enough.

Here’s some hummus for your lips to remind you of home.

You’ve escaped to Sweden where we’ve made this moment a reality, but your heart’s still back in the Middle East.

Your new home is here with me.

Just the two of us. Now. Together.

Enjoying this moment. Hoping that it’ll be forever.

Creative Writing Love

How This Love Ended

They both died holding each other.

One died with bitterness. The other with longing.

She thought: They were meant to be.

He was bitter because he felt this life was wasted with her.

She was still longing for him even in death. Even in nothingness.

Their families carried both their bodies on a cart on a long and dusty road.

If was on the 50th bump on the road that both bodies fell to the ground.

This is where they were buried.

As with all things in nature, transformation happened.

Both he and she changed: he into a scorpion and she into a butterfly.

One was destined to a new life of dealing death propelled by rage.

The other a life of longing for the sweetness of nectar.

The scorpion looked at the butterfly and thought he knew her.

She looked at him and wondered why she felt an attraction to something evil and deadly.

That thought lasted just a second.

They went on their way: one, to deal death, and the other to give life.

And this is how their one-time love ended in separation.

Creative Writing Love

Stockholm Syndrome And This Thing Called Love

How can I expect someone broken to fix me?

Maybe because there’s no choice.

Maybe because he’s just good with words.

The real reason is that he hurts me the way I want.

Bruised lips, black eyes, fractured wrists, and a whole recipe of pain. This is what I know as love.

He promises to change, and lay kisses softly like gossamer on the places he has bruised and broken.

And that’s when I know that everything will be okay. That he still loves me.

Yet nothing much has changed, because I know, and that is why I still sleep with the light on.

Creative Writing Love

In Search Of Daddy

Daddy can’t save you from the trauma your daddy laid on you, son. I know how you see me, and it’s endearing. I see you and everything that time has taken away from me. I want your youth.

Some stories last longer than others. Let’s hope this story lasts a long time. You equate this love you feel for me as a Forever Tale. But it just might be an episode of limerence that you feel.

I see a lithe body put through the rigours of gym. The tea-coloured skin with a sheen of sweat shining in the afternoon sun. The strained muscles with the vigor of veins pulsating underneath. The scent of man and youth permeates where I will lay you down and pleasure you.

You see simply a daddy figure. You want the stability and comfort that money gives, and the experience of pleasure in bed. You want the protection and embrace of someone who cares, and someone who will say that everything is alright.

You won’t leave me for now; if and when the money runs out, comfort collapses, and that’s what this Daddy gives. See son, I’ve done this before: I make it a point to know the man across this gulf, before I strike a deal. Sadly, you’re just another one. Everything has an expiry date including us.

Creative Writing Love

Tongue Play

Childhood innocence died today.

Love came out of ex nihilo.

I ziplocked some of his clothes retaining his smell.

He parked his tongue in my mouth. A velvet rut.

Knowing that love had an expiration date, an obvious thought appeared like a stain: I think I’ll just hold your tongue with mine.

The idea of love is true and false at the same time.

Love was everything and nothing after this kiss.

And then I laid my eyes on him; my brown eyes on his sharp jawline and lips.

When he hugged my tongue, the lips enclosing it in a bear hug, I knew that it would be fine.

We all want this storybook fantasy.

When it comes to this theme of love, the finer points are always exaggerated, but the broader strokes in its narrative feels very true.

Yet, love is still very much a lie.

Creative Writing Love

Goody Trail

When I led him to the bedroom with my eyes, he smirked and said: Oh, big moves.

I said: You know so. I know how you want tonight to end.

I grabbed his hands and twisted his wrists until his tongue clicked the roof of his mouth in pain.

I used my tongue to unfurl his desire by tracking his nipples and moving down to his groin.

Out went his Gucci shirt. When he lifted his arms, beneath the Hugo Boss scent there resided something stronger and exciting.

What’s it about the acrid smell of a man that sets everything alight? It just might turn out to be a good night tonight.

Creative Writing Love

Kindness Tied My Shoelaces

I remember when I was just 8.

Kindness tied my shoelaces.

And then you got cancer when I was 38.

Today the dancing stopped, because you died.

Tomorrow, I will see you for the last time, as I lay you down.

I can always find you in the books you read and the dishes you made.

But, if only I could wake up and just miss you less.