Ginger Twinkle (gingertwinkle) wrote in thelustdumpster,
Ginger Twinkle


It’s still snowing outside—all the cars are covered in powdered-sugary flakes, dusted heavily on the hoods, trunks and tops. The tree branches aren’t yet weighted down; they’re strong enough not to shiver while they proudly hold up the whiteness that falls from the sky. When it snows, the grey Seattle sky somehow manages to get just a little brighter, basking everything in a new shade of ivory.

I experience this through glass while the cold tries to push itself over my skin, into my bones. I wrap myself deeper into my sheets. A buffer. Unannounced they have spent the night in conversation with my naked body, gathering heat they now use in defense. Now that I’m almost entirely hidden, the pale pillowcase lays in striking contrast to my hair, which is scattered densely on top of it. This is what’s left in the chill.

In what has become my soft, winter cavern I feel myself run my hand over smooth skin. Over ribs, then waist, then hips, ass and then thigh. My head nuzzles the pillow, stirring cold air, and in response my body cuddles backward into what I’m reminded is an empty bed. A wide, warm, lonely bed.

Slowly, I roll my body to its other side. I wrap myself tighter. I push my hand to where it’s warmer still. There, I think of snow. I think of morning. I think of hands and skin rougher than my own. I think of many things before my body no longer allows me to think at all.
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