Esquire Theme by Matthew Buchanan
Social icons by Tim van Damme

13

Jun

“But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.”  ― Ernest Hemingway He had seen a photo once, of Paris at night, taken from a satellite in space. The city looked like a galaxy: millions of glimmering pinpricks and twinkles, against the darkness of night, converging in a central star-like point. It didn’t just glow, it radiated; it breathed as though it were alive. It was ablaze in light, burning and spreading its golden scars into a dark body. It looked as though it were unraveling something hidden, something so much brighter, exposing it to the world. He remembered that photo, that galaxy burning through the darkness, as he felt hands race over his naked skin, blackened by the night, and felt as though each rake of blunt nail and each touch of hot fingertips tore away at the darkness on him. It tore more than clothes away—it tore at the skin, and revealed something bright, searing hot, and desperate to breathe. Desperate to breathe, much like the hard pants that caused breath to explode over their skin as their lips parted against each other’s in the darkness; the sound of living, of the heat and the burn, tearing from their throats. Hands touching every bared inch, fighting the shadows and creating paths that gleamed under the moonlight; light that breathed under the touch. Every moan, every stifled sob of need, every touch of fingertips to hungry mouths, every palm on the arch of the spine, every beat of the body against the other, sent a pulse ripping through that golden galaxy, and the haze at the edges of the light shimmered in delirium.  And as their hands tore at each other, sliding, slick, rough, piercing; he never felt more naked than before, he never felt so exposed before, he never felt more ablaze. As though everything about him was bared into the cold night air and the moonlight, set alight by touch and the flicker of a kiss. Pressing his mouth to the other’s, breathing life into him, into every pulse, passed between two unveiled galaxies. As though every twinkle in the city was brought into their bodies, and released in an explosion of heat and light.

“But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.” 


― Ernest Hemingway

He had seen a photo once, of Paris at night, taken from a satellite in space. The city looked like a galaxy: millions of glimmering pinpricks and twinkles, against the darkness of night, converging in a central star-like point.

It didn’t just glow, it radiated; it breathed as though it were alive. It was ablaze in light, burning and spreading its golden scars into a dark body. It looked as though it were unraveling something hidden, something so much brighter, exposing it to the world.

He remembered that photo, that galaxy burning through the darkness, as he felt hands race over his naked skin, blackened by the night, and felt as though each rake of blunt nail and each touch of hot fingertips tore away at the darkness on him. It tore more than clothes away—it tore at the skin, and revealed something bright, searing hot, and desperate to breathe.

Desperate to breathe, much like the hard pants that caused breath to explode over their skin as their lips parted against each other’s in the darkness; the sound of living, of the heat and the burn, tearing from their throats. Hands touching every bared inch, fighting the shadows and creating paths that gleamed under the moonlight; light that breathed under the touch.

Every moan, every stifled sob of need, every touch of fingertips to hungry mouths, every palm on the arch of the spine, every beat of the body against the other, sent a pulse ripping through that golden galaxy, and the haze at the edges of the light shimmered in delirium. 

And as their hands tore at each other, sliding, slick, rough, piercing; he never felt more naked than before, he never felt so exposed before, he never felt more ablaze. As though everything about him was bared into the cold night air and the moonlight, set alight by touch and the flicker of a kiss. Pressing his mouth to the other’s, breathing life into him, into every pulse, passed between two unveiled galaxies.

As though every twinkle in the city was brought into their bodies, and released in an explosion of heat and light.

  1. thepaddlingloli reblogged this from totheshuttle
  2. expert-textpert reblogged this from totheshuttle
  3. loganhasseenthelight reblogged this from totheshuttle
  4. lily-march reblogged this from totheshuttle
  5. delelleled reblogged this from totheshuttle
  6. totheshuttle posted this

11 months ago Short URL 11 notes

larythe/sebastian smythe/Julian Larson/CP Coulter/tag:paris adventures/