You would look at me with the menace of a cat chasing mice. Eyes narrowed, contemplating my every move, my every breath. We'd lie under the dark scrutiny of the moon, and your fingers would explore vile depths.
I haven't been touched in years now. I shiver each time my hair fly from the wind. Yet, my skin craves the secrets whispered by his fingertips. He looks at me in the periphery of three feet, eyes a little droopy at midnight. I'm scared. All the nights spent waiting for morning, and the days spent waiting for dark. Bloodied paper cutters, tear stained pages. Shit. He knows.
