malikamustang

Cecil spoke with his hands, and when he did, it looked like magic. I was always stumbling for words while he made them out of thin air, shaping molecules into sounds so quiet they could only be seen. I wanted my fingers to dance like his, but they felt clumsy and heavy. But he always smiled when I tried, and his hands smiled back. There were nights when the only way I could speak was in sideways glances, and his fingertips would whisper secrets across my collarbone, always slow and soft and quiet. On the beach, he presses his palm to mine in a classic and immediately intimate gesture. I use my hands to sculpt sandcastles while his knuckles