Blue Jeans
2nd part in the 'object of my affection' series, which is as of yet very unfinished. In fact, this is the second story, written only about ten minutes after the last one was finished, but it seemed a natural progression.
Let me know what you think.
****
Blue. Dark Blue. My favourite colour.
He wears it all the time, probably without realizing, but he does. Blue jeans, accompanied by the most remarkable shirts. He doesn't mean to look so damn amazing, but it seems to be natural for him.
It's this aura that becomes him-he's Italian, he's young, and he's remarkably handsome. It seems like the right combination, because I can't stop thinking about him and his blue jeans.
Sometimes jealousy kicks in and I wonder how many women have seen him without his denim armor, but then I realize, I probably can't cope with the answer-too many, no doubt, and I will probably never be one of them. I get so jealous, so easily when it comes to him.
His image-a handsome man, dressed in a blue plaid button down and well fitting blue jeans-has been seared into my memory, dancing across my retinas and pervading my better sense, which used to tell me to avoid these thoughts of him. I don't listen anymore. I'm happier this way.
But the damn cravings. He can't know how much I crave being able to say that he, and all his blue denim glory, is mine. I've never told him, and he'd never guess, I'm sure. I'm not his type. I'm too.Connecticut, and too country club.
Too bad the country club dosen't admit people sheathed in denim. He'd be the talk of the green, in his indigo blues, his flawless form standing against a purple-pink hazy sky. That's just the image I hold onto, in the darkness of my room, between cool, lonely sheets.
It's not the same though. The image can't hold up to the man in my life, whose blue jeans of my favorite shades make him irrepressible in my subconscious-the image I try to forget, but never will, no matter how valiant my efforts.
2nd part in the 'object of my affection' series, which is as of yet very unfinished. In fact, this is the second story, written only about ten minutes after the last one was finished, but it seemed a natural progression.
Let me know what you think.
****
Blue. Dark Blue. My favourite colour.
He wears it all the time, probably without realizing, but he does. Blue jeans, accompanied by the most remarkable shirts. He doesn't mean to look so damn amazing, but it seems to be natural for him.
It's this aura that becomes him-he's Italian, he's young, and he's remarkably handsome. It seems like the right combination, because I can't stop thinking about him and his blue jeans.
Sometimes jealousy kicks in and I wonder how many women have seen him without his denim armor, but then I realize, I probably can't cope with the answer-too many, no doubt, and I will probably never be one of them. I get so jealous, so easily when it comes to him.
His image-a handsome man, dressed in a blue plaid button down and well fitting blue jeans-has been seared into my memory, dancing across my retinas and pervading my better sense, which used to tell me to avoid these thoughts of him. I don't listen anymore. I'm happier this way.
But the damn cravings. He can't know how much I crave being able to say that he, and all his blue denim glory, is mine. I've never told him, and he'd never guess, I'm sure. I'm not his type. I'm too.Connecticut, and too country club.
Too bad the country club dosen't admit people sheathed in denim. He'd be the talk of the green, in his indigo blues, his flawless form standing against a purple-pink hazy sky. That's just the image I hold onto, in the darkness of my room, between cool, lonely sheets.
It's not the same though. The image can't hold up to the man in my life, whose blue jeans of my favorite shades make him irrepressible in my subconscious-the image I try to forget, but never will, no matter how valiant my efforts.