conversations with my muse
Her eyes dropped with the weight of her thoughts. Marbles shifting and darkening with her insight, "I used to always write dialogue."
"Really?" He half grunted masking the comedy in his voice. He was either surprised or humored. And as he winked at her with his empathetic blues and signature half-smile, he picked a piece of tobacco from the tip of his tongue, "How so, darlin?"
"When I was a kid. Those stories I used to write. Actually, they were more like books." She laughed like a shy child: embarrassed, but willingly baring her soul. There was something about him that allowed her to be who she once was. Someone she thought would never resurrect.
"I didn't know that, darlin. Well, you'll have no problem. Just write the conversations as you hear 'em. I mean, writing dialogue doesn't usually come natural to anyone, hun."
She looked at him and she saw God. Not God as in the paperdoll image she cut along the lines as a child, but God as a metaphor.
She smiled, kissing the corner of his mouth to taste his dip. Then, slowly, she licked the remnants of him from her lips.
Savoring all of him.