Still Trembling

A couple of times as I walked through the streets of Aarhus my mouth opened a little to let the tip of my tongue delicately touch my lips for at short moment. I guess they felt a little lonely suddenly. Missing the attention you gave them. 

Besides that Aarhus is a story in itself.

I'm on my way home. Spain is just a memory and tomorrow I will be entering the stable and greet the horses just as before I left. Only a week passed. Time is relative. It always seems to surprise to me. 

Looking at beautiful Danes in this train - focusing on their lips. When were the last time they were kissed? For real? We should all kiss some more.

I have this connection with the girl across me. She likes me and I like most people now. She is gentle and maybe turkish. Her lips a carefully shaped towards smiles and nibbling fruit. Although I think she mostly uses them for reciting prayers and shushing her younger siblings. 

Under Byen accompanies my writing for some time and I'd wish the whole train could hear the beauty of their songs. Things fall apart but they never forget about the things they left behind. 

I leave the turkish girl with potentials to herself and replaces train with bus in the very heart of Denmark. The bus driver is a mean, chubby woman, who won't let us in before the exact scheduling time, which makes me shiver uncontrollably to wake up her empathy and because there's no way I can help not to. Denmark is so freaking cold and harsh on me that I almost feel offended. I wear the glasses which only devotes to Spain and the things which overwhelmed me during the last week.

Pieces of sentences run through me. Things that you said. That I thought. And then this warm, tickling feeling between my legs because I haven't had sex today. I'm sure masturbation won't do the trick,  but I might try anyway. Imagining you lying on your back getting dizzy from my blowjob. The bus shakes my body and refuses to leave me alone. My God... It all ends up one place - your favorite one - and I wish you were still there. 

Turning my back on the cold I draw on my sleeping bag and get comfortable on the bus seat. It also has the benefit of hiding my left, non-writing hand, which unconsciously begins to touch and circle around the clitoris from outside the jeans. 

I didn't use to be like this. It is quite inappropriate. I don't think the reading, grey haired lady about to meters from me would appreciate it, if she knew. The three boyish teenagers behind me probably would. Not that I care. Not about this at least. 

My butt hurts. Force my fingers to calm down. It is only frustrating.

Rebecca