Small flight
Snuggled up, she sits there reading.
At least, she tries to.
Again and again, her thoughts get lost between the lines, wander somewhere, where the book can't reach her anymore.
Eventually, she leans back and closes her eyes.
No more distraction.
She breathes deeply in, lets the air slowly escape, and sighs very softly.
Then she starts to follow the images.
The small movements. The f****rtips that glide over her skin like a gentle caress in her imagination, leaving an almost invisible trail.
She could push the thought away.
But why, really?
If it feels so good to slowly sink into it. To let herself drift, until reality becomes quieter and only this warm tingling remains.
Maybe she doesn't have to know where her thoughts lead her.
Maybe she's allowed to simply follow them.
To where she has hidden her wings.










