littlepilot

United States

Beatrice

June 8, 2019

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She capsuled the sun in her stance, enamored with the wind that brushed her dark locks. She cradled her arms like the child she could never keep, her ankles position so daintily parallel to each other. Her lips promised a voice as delicious as honey on a silver spoon, punctured and pursed by her nervous teeth and padded fingertips. Her toes curled along the grass stalks that poked between them, cold and wet from last night's rain. Her knitted cardigan was pulled up towards her face where a distinguishing mark, as dark as the soil, rested over her cheekbone.
    In my profession, we'd call it a discrepancy of the skin along the Zygomatic bone. A birthmark. It was in the shape of a continent, perhaps the plains of Asia. The Russian ports reached up towards the beginning of her eye and caught tears when she cried, harvesting her sweet salt. If one had the fortunate chance of landing a kiss on her cheek, they'd be kissing all of China.
    It was no mark of Cain, but she treated it so. If only she understood she had no lack of splendor, that her eyes were enough to charm me. She was nowhere near a person of lackluster, but absorbed in extraordinary pulcher.

    It was so exquisitely her, I was sure no one else could've looked more human. 

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  • June 8, 2019 - 9:08am (Now Viewing)

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