The girl just bought that pair of nice denim jeans. The denim jeans were light blue. She liked to wear them out. They made the girl look very nice. She really loved those things. She had recieved a good deal on them.
she loved the way he had softened over time, moulded himself to her curves. the way his rough edges now gently held her together on days when her insides threatened drown out the world. how he knew and touched parts no one else ever had. and how he now fit only her.
she hated that her growth slowly tore him apart. and how her desperate attempts to close the gaps left only tangled threads. she too often left his heart in knots.
so she resigned herself. a patch here. a patch there. oh how she tried to make them match. but the incongruous pieces tore and pulled him into pieces.
This word has been used before. I know, because I distinctly remember what you wrote in relation to it. An ode to someone who was not me. And thinking of that causes the beast inside me to stir. It reminds me of what I used to be, what I still could be, if I were to put aside my lamp. You remember her, because you can still feel her claws tearing your heart to pieces. Bottling up her pain and fury until all she could do was hunt you down and eat you alive. Just like animals. Good song…I digress. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I could not find healing in time to spare you the terrible wounds I dealt you. All I can do for you now is love you from far away, and cover you with the prayers that I could never fulfill.
It was perfect,
The sheen of the cloth,
The smell of her lingering ever so slightly,
To him,
This was his world-
Her old blue jeans and the taste of menthol cigarettes.
The denim clings to her legs like a second skin, molding itself from ankle to thigh. It’s distracting in the best possible way and I only stop myself from NOT looking after we’ve exchanged a set of shy smiles. If she didn’t ind me looking, I certainly didn’t, so I let my gaze linger a little longer than was strictly necessary as she passed by.
Blue denim jeans. That’s what he’s wearing, and he has a finger hooked into each loop. Hands on his hips, he projects confidence, but also cockiness, and so I’m both infatuated with him and want to slap him in the face for acting so damn conceited.
A man approached the globe
He was wearing his pale denim sweater
The world in front of him seemed small
It wasn’t
He couldn’t grasp it
So, he left it
Never looked back
And dropped his denim sweater to the ground
He wore denim jeans every day. He only had one pair and rarely washed them. They had no holes until he was running through the streets, drunk, and stumbled.
Denise wore a denim jacket over her skinny black necktie and silver vest, waiting for me at the corner table with a glass of Zinfandel already half-empty in her fingers. I sat down shakily, brushing a spot of dust from my slacks. She watched me with a smile drooping from the left corner of her mouth.
“Nervous?” she asked. “I’m not going to bite, honest.” As she said that, she pushed the bottle of wine over to me, gesturing at the empty vessel beside my silverware.
I loved that leather jacket on him – the black sleekness accented the soft blue of his body-hugging denim jeans. He was a vision of modern-day man – hip, hot and manly. If only he could sing; he would’ve put Bon Jovi to shame.
It was faded and charming and in my size, the way it should be over the sides of my legs so smooth. I wanted to curl up and rest with my hands in those pockets, and feel the fall leaves dance on my face, laying on the grass outside, the sun setting.
I mean, look at them. Two people, one of the is probably wearing a denim vest with a knitted sweater. The other has a family heirloom watch from Pops. They smile from across the coffee shop waiting line.
Denim, I had no idea what word to expect but then to think Denim, I imagine clothes, fashion, good looking, in fact all that is nice. So again, Denim is the word, when I turn it around, I am unable to immediately form something with it. What a great fun it was to try to form a story from the word denim :-)
The denim jeans perfectly fit her. She was the one. With brown hair, and hazel eyes, she could pierce the soul of anyone. Exactly what she’s done to me. I need to find a time to talk to her, but I don’t know how much longer my courage will hold.
“Mom, I need some jeans,” I yelled down from the top of the stairs.
“HoneyBun, don’t worry, I started the wash this morning.”
“I NEED THEM NOW,” I bellowed.
He slapped the dust off his denim jacket and the cat sitting next to him on the floor sneezed. He smiled as he bent to scratch his pets head, glad to finally be home from his long day on the range.
Demon? No denim. I could write lots of things about demons, but denim not so much. I could write about how stupid that it is that we all press ourselves into uncomfortable stiff fabric just to fit in. Leggings for all. I hate denim.
sequins ran down one leg and not the other. it was a trashy pair of jeans – doubtless trashy when she bought them, more so now that holes had been burnt through the knees.
Denim jeans are a staple anywhere outside the city limits; the durability and comfort prioritized over whatever just came off the runway in those shining high rises. Jordan always liked how it looked on everyone, appreciated it honestly, so finally getting his fancy businessman boyfriend into a worn pair of Levis was the ultimate aesthetic success. Harvey pouting didn’t hurt much either.
Denim jeans is a fade of love that bled hard cold in the 90’s. We thought we were cool to wear it all the time, but leather took over every fall and we just didn’t know what to do with ourselves. We pretended that we knew so we all played along and played our favorite light rock songs. Hoping to taste the last of summer in the 90’s as we knew it. Denim.
Sometimes I enjoy wearing denim. It can be constricting, although it makes my butt look great. The full on denim suit makes me giggle, and no one should wear it. Overalls are cutting it close to the full on denim suit… Farmer style! Denim, denim, denim…. Shorts.
Deny the denim! Chinos! Slacks! Maybe a nice pair of black jeans sure okay whatever but blue jeans are out! Deny them, like you would deny the devil in your heart if her breasts weren’t so smooth, so milky…. But never mind that. Cast out all thoughts of younger days, of chasing girls and james dean. You are a Professional Adult Man. Deny.
When I was younger, one of the ways my aunt would punish me for bad behavior was to make me wear the same pair of jeans all week. It sapped my feelings of individuality and as a result I have become resistant to the idea of wearing jeans unless incredibly necessary. Denim is a symbol of being controlled for me and ever since I primarily wear skirts, shorts, and leggings.
My denim jeans hug me so tightly. Just like you used to. But now they’re all worn out and baggy, just like our love has formed into. We are just a pair of ripped up, worn out jeans.
Denim doesn’t mean much to me. I suppose all that crops up is horrifying images of my pre-teen self, committing the dreaded “double denim” crime. The good news is that I took it to another level: quadruple denim. I was sporting the classic denim top, jacket, jeans and the not-so-obvious denim scrunchie. Scrunchies have actually started becoming fashionable again. My 17 year old sister bought one from Top Shop for £8. Maybe I should find my denim scrunchie – I could probably pass it off as vintage.
The dark faded denim of his jeans perfectly complemented his navy blue t-shirt. Now here was a boy who had a sense of style, she thought to herself. Nothing too extravagant, just quiet brilliance.
Denim jackets. Seriously. Do they look good on anyone? Well, maybe rebels from the 1950s, but overall, these seem pretty lame on most people–especially families that have matching denim outfits. (My apologies to anyone reading this that has an overblown picture with your family in matching denim. I hope this picture wasn’t taken by choice.)
denim was her fabric of choice and while she knew she should be shopping for interview clothes in case she ever got one instead she was just wandering the mall aimlessly marveling at all the changes that had occurred in her absence.
It was simple enough to operate.
A button.
A pull tab.
Snug little teeth on the zipper.
Still, the way it tangles around your legs makes you sometimes wonder if denim might not be another word for death trap.
she always wore the same denim jacket, her dirty blond hair brushing just above the pockets. the first time i met her, she smiled at me and told me i looked cold. it was thirty degrees and she just had that. just had her thin little blue jacket, made of the same material as my jeans. and she lent me it. she slipped it off and gave me it, and i tried to say no, but she laughed and told me to keep it for a few minutes. i watched the pale goosebumps rise on her arms and wondered if she’d hold my hands.
The new jeans fit perfectly. They weren’t too tight that they bit into her hips, but not so loose that they dragged behind her heels like a kid in his pajamas. She turned in the mirror, trying to admire herself from the side. Her figure didn’t lend itself to the hourglass pose she wanted, and she sighed at her bulging belly, but at least the jeans were a step in the right direction.
I want to tug onto your too-long-for-you denim sleeves until they’re long enough to allow my hands in and intertwine my fingers with yours.
The girl just bought that pair of nice denim jeans. The denim jeans were light blue. She liked to wear them out. They made the girl look very nice. She really loved those things. She had recieved a good deal on them.
it had been a love hate affair.
she loved the way he had softened over time, moulded himself to her curves. the way his rough edges now gently held her together on days when her insides threatened drown out the world. how he knew and touched parts no one else ever had. and how he now fit only her.
she hated that her growth slowly tore him apart. and how her desperate attempts to close the gaps left only tangled threads. she too often left his heart in knots.
so she resigned herself. a patch here. a patch there. oh how she tried to make them match. but the incongruous pieces tore and pulled him into pieces.
these days, she could barely find him.
This word has been used before. I know, because I distinctly remember what you wrote in relation to it. An ode to someone who was not me. And thinking of that causes the beast inside me to stir. It reminds me of what I used to be, what I still could be, if I were to put aside my lamp. You remember her, because you can still feel her claws tearing your heart to pieces. Bottling up her pain and fury until all she could do was hunt you down and eat you alive. Just like animals. Good song…I digress. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I could not find healing in time to spare you the terrible wounds I dealt you. All I can do for you now is love you from far away, and cover you with the prayers that I could never fulfill.
It was perfect,
The sheen of the cloth,
The smell of her lingering ever so slightly,
To him,
This was his world-
Her old blue jeans and the taste of menthol cigarettes.
The denim clings to her legs like a second skin, molding itself from ankle to thigh. It’s distracting in the best possible way and I only stop myself from NOT looking after we’ve exchanged a set of shy smiles. If she didn’t ind me looking, I certainly didn’t, so I let my gaze linger a little longer than was strictly necessary as she passed by.
Blue denim jeans. That’s what he’s wearing, and he has a finger hooked into each loop. Hands on his hips, he projects confidence, but also cockiness, and so I’m both infatuated with him and want to slap him in the face for acting so damn conceited.
IT stains your hands blue when you wash them. Makes my butt look awesome or horrible. Butter my thighs. Wish I didn’t have to ever wash them.
A man approached the globe
He was wearing his pale denim sweater
The world in front of him seemed small
It wasn’t
He couldn’t grasp it
So, he left it
Never looked back
And dropped his denim sweater to the ground
He wore denim jeans every day. He only had one pair and rarely washed them. They had no holes until he was running through the streets, drunk, and stumbled.
Denise wore a denim jacket over her skinny black necktie and silver vest, waiting for me at the corner table with a glass of Zinfandel already half-empty in her fingers. I sat down shakily, brushing a spot of dust from my slacks. She watched me with a smile drooping from the left corner of her mouth.
“Nervous?” she asked. “I’m not going to bite, honest.” As she said that, she pushed the bottle of wine over to me, gesturing at the empty vessel beside my silverware.
I loved that leather jacket on him – the black sleekness accented the soft blue of his body-hugging denim jeans. He was a vision of modern-day man – hip, hot and manly. If only he could sing; he would’ve put Bon Jovi to shame.
It was faded and charming and in my size, the way it should be over the sides of my legs so smooth. I wanted to curl up and rest with my hands in those pockets, and feel the fall leaves dance on my face, laying on the grass outside, the sun setting.
Blue and heavy like oceans crossing earths plain for miles.
Reliable the one thing you can count on. Simple and comforting.
I’ve always known I was a sucker for Rom Coms.
I mean, look at them. Two people, one of the is probably wearing a denim vest with a knitted sweater. The other has a family heirloom watch from Pops. They smile from across the coffee shop waiting line.
Is that love these days?
Denim jeans
Rubbing me the wrong way
Slide down grassy slope
Tumble backwards
Denim ripped
Across the knee.
Denim jacket
Sitting across my shoulders
Too snug
Feelings of inappropriate grandeur
Who am I?
I don’t
Like
Denim.
you can’t base
beauty off of
what size denim
you fit
jeggings versus
double x
have no effect
on who you are
Denim, I had no idea what word to expect but then to think Denim, I imagine clothes, fashion, good looking, in fact all that is nice. So again, Denim is the word, when I turn it around, I am unable to immediately form something with it. What a great fun it was to try to form a story from the word denim :-)
The denim jeans perfectly fit her. She was the one. With brown hair, and hazel eyes, she could pierce the soul of anyone. Exactly what she’s done to me. I need to find a time to talk to her, but I don’t know how much longer my courage will hold.
“Mom, I need some jeans,” I yelled down from the top of the stairs.
“HoneyBun, don’t worry, I started the wash this morning.”
“I NEED THEM NOW,” I bellowed.
He slapped the dust off his denim jacket and the cat sitting next to him on the floor sneezed. He smiled as he bent to scratch his pets head, glad to finally be home from his long day on the range.
Demon? No denim. I could write lots of things about demons, but denim not so much. I could write about how stupid that it is that we all press ourselves into uncomfortable stiff fabric just to fit in. Leggings for all. I hate denim.
sequins ran down one leg and not the other. it was a trashy pair of jeans – doubtless trashy when she bought them, more so now that holes had been burnt through the knees.
Washed out-
Like a pair of old denim jeans
She was worn and weary
Of the cyclic nature of life
Denim jeans are a staple anywhere outside the city limits; the durability and comfort prioritized over whatever just came off the runway in those shining high rises. Jordan always liked how it looked on everyone, appreciated it honestly, so finally getting his fancy businessman boyfriend into a worn pair of Levis was the ultimate aesthetic success. Harvey pouting didn’t hurt much either.
Denim jeans is a fade of love that bled hard cold in the 90’s. We thought we were cool to wear it all the time, but leather took over every fall and we just didn’t know what to do with ourselves. We pretended that we knew so we all played along and played our favorite light rock songs. Hoping to taste the last of summer in the 90’s as we knew it. Denim.
Sometimes I enjoy wearing denim. It can be constricting, although it makes my butt look great. The full on denim suit makes me giggle, and no one should wear it. Overalls are cutting it close to the full on denim suit… Farmer style! Denim, denim, denim…. Shorts.
Deny the denim! Chinos! Slacks! Maybe a nice pair of black jeans sure okay whatever but blue jeans are out! Deny them, like you would deny the devil in your heart if her breasts weren’t so smooth, so milky…. But never mind that. Cast out all thoughts of younger days, of chasing girls and james dean. You are a Professional Adult Man. Deny.
When I was younger, one of the ways my aunt would punish me for bad behavior was to make me wear the same pair of jeans all week. It sapped my feelings of individuality and as a result I have become resistant to the idea of wearing jeans unless incredibly necessary. Denim is a symbol of being controlled for me and ever since I primarily wear skirts, shorts, and leggings.
Her denim jeans were hemmed at the ankle and her jacket smelled faintly of brown sugar and apples.
My denim jeans hug me so tightly. Just like you used to. But now they’re all worn out and baggy, just like our love has formed into. We are just a pair of ripped up, worn out jeans.
Denim doesn’t mean much to me. I suppose all that crops up is horrifying images of my pre-teen self, committing the dreaded “double denim” crime. The good news is that I took it to another level: quadruple denim. I was sporting the classic denim top, jacket, jeans and the not-so-obvious denim scrunchie. Scrunchies have actually started becoming fashionable again. My 17 year old sister bought one from Top Shop for £8. Maybe I should find my denim scrunchie – I could probably pass it off as vintage.
She wore denim as her favorite attire. And even though she had money she didn’t care, she was more comfortable in that than anything else.
The dark faded denim of his jeans perfectly complemented his navy blue t-shirt. Now here was a boy who had a sense of style, she thought to herself. Nothing too extravagant, just quiet brilliance.
Denim jackets. Seriously. Do they look good on anyone? Well, maybe rebels from the 1950s, but overall, these seem pretty lame on most people–especially families that have matching denim outfits. (My apologies to anyone reading this that has an overblown picture with your family in matching denim. I hope this picture wasn’t taken by choice.)
denim was her fabric of choice and while she knew she should be shopping for interview clothes in case she ever got one instead she was just wandering the mall aimlessly marveling at all the changes that had occurred in her absence.
It was simple enough to operate.
A button.
A pull tab.
Snug little teeth on the zipper.
Still, the way it tangles around your legs makes you sometimes wonder if denim might not be another word for death trap.
I felt the denim fabric, pursing my lips as I realized that it was too light. It’d never do for the riding lessons.
she always wore the same denim jacket, her dirty blond hair brushing just above the pockets. the first time i met her, she smiled at me and told me i looked cold. it was thirty degrees and she just had that. just had her thin little blue jacket, made of the same material as my jeans. and she lent me it. she slipped it off and gave me it, and i tried to say no, but she laughed and told me to keep it for a few minutes. i watched the pale goosebumps rise on her arms and wondered if she’d hold my hands.
The new jeans fit perfectly. They weren’t too tight that they bit into her hips, but not so loose that they dragged behind her heels like a kid in his pajamas. She turned in the mirror, trying to admire herself from the side. Her figure didn’t lend itself to the hourglass pose she wanted, and she sighed at her bulging belly, but at least the jeans were a step in the right direction.