I'm in one of those slow-dancing moods tonight. The kind where you have arms locked around necks and waists and it's not really like you're turning around in circles but that all existence is going around you. Where your senses are severely acute, but not to the point of being uncomfortable, and you still taste the chianti in your mouth, see that sardonic smile even with your eyes closed, smell that alluring cologne lingering on his collar, feel his searing body heat through two layers of buttoned shirts, hear the weeping violins dash into and out of crescendos like the soundtrack to a movie at a specifically poignant moment. And when you tilt, the world tilts with you except for him because you're leaning and holding on to dear life... but not really. And your arms never get numb or tired from having them wrapped around his neck. And the lighting is just right, like many stars trapped in the walls of the restaurant.
It's that kind of dancing. It's that kind of mood.
It's that kind of night.
. . .
Sorry.
Just needed to feel like the romantic that I used to be for one night.
. . .
::stops the Damien Rice that's playing and goes back to his cruel homework::
I apologize again.
This wasn't a very interesting 1600th post, was it?
. . . . . posted:||10:35 PM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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