we touch in isolation and kiss in moderation, every touch is punctuated by a soft breath
in the tiny space between our lips. the bedsheets beneath us both are soft, star-speckled
and bunched up beneath my knees. your knees. my back, as you push me down and cup
my face in your hands and murmur praises against my lips.
on monday i’m pretty and on tuesday i’m beautiful; wednesday makes me sweet
and thursday is simply lovely. the weekend is a blur, friday-saturday-sunday, all
filled with your words. golden, stunning, ethereal, perfect, spelled out on my skin
with the light passes of your lips and gentle touches of your rough fingertips across
my back.
that isn’t, of course, to say that i say nothing in return - you’re my earthen miracle, i
tell you, my sunshine-soaked boy, my summertime honeybee.
in the summertime, when sunlight isn’t overshadowed by an unending downpour,
i’ll hold your hand in the shade of overgrown flora, i’ll kiss you among the sunflowers.
i’ll tell the world, unashamedly, that you’re mine and i’m yours, that we’ve both reached
the feeling of belonging that we’ve been searching for for so long.
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