Of crayons and sniffles

I’m writing this with Crayola sleeping peacefully on top of me.

I call her Crayola you see, for I love how we behave like a bunch of kids given a piece of paper and some crayons. Me sitting up close behind her on the floor, barely able to take my focus off her as we draw; we just sit and draw for hours and hours. She’s so talented and expressive, I’m perpetually mesmerised; as my fingertips can’t help but trace those creative, long hands of hers. Before long, the drawing we were creating takes a back seat—the drawing with my broad, abstract strokes with her lush detail making it come so alive.

And now she’s asleep. So peacefully, raising and lowering slightly as I breathe. Her slender arms still wrapped loosely around me. Her hair so elegant even as it’s dishevelled. One look at her lazed form sway softly over me, and every delicious event since I first sat down behind her to draw flashes before my eyes.

She’s so beautiful you see, I’ve been unable to go to sleep—I’ve just been lost staring at her soft form. Watching her breathe, hearing her murmur and whimper so cutely from time to time, the soft vibrations of her body—oh goodness, she’s delicious—I can’t take my eyes off her. It’s taken so much out of me to part my palms from her delicate, soft back to grab this letter-pad. It’s so dark, and I can see very little, but my dear Crayola I see so clearly. She doesn’t know how much she has me mesmerised. Oh, her nose is totally blocked, she’s snorting and grunting slightly, trying to ease her breaths. And I’m whispering softly and reassuringly in her ear each time she mumbles in her sleep, perturbed. I can’t bear to see her perturbed, I want her forever peaceful and protected in my arms; with me still deep inside her.

Oh, I can’t take it anymore. I have to leave—to kiss her forehead, those tired, closed eyelids and that cute, blocked nose.