"The problem with us is," she began, tracing patterns across the smooth skin of his back with delicate fingertips, fingertips which were light to the touch. It was as if each finger held a little ember of fire, and with each touch it was released onto his skin. "-is I trust you with my heart, but not with your hands."
She sat up a bit and tried to explain, as best a feeble human could. "It's like. If you hurt my feelings, yeah I'll be mad, of course I'm mad, but I'll get over it." He listened as she tried to find the words, but his eyebrows were etched together like thread on cotton. "It's your hands I don't trust. They wander and wander and don't know the power of their actions. If you touch someone the way you touch me, that's when I'll stop forgiving you. So just use your hands on my heart, only mine."
He sighed, his eyes closed. The hairs on his body had raised and left him feeling cold, something she was able to do so easily. "I get it, I want you all for myself, I'm selfish. I get it. I'm sorry."
And I'm sorry if you're everything and I feel closer to home in your arms, but I just don't want you to go, she wanted to say. She thought what she was doing was okay - she was protecting herself and keeping him close. But she would destroy him; she'd done it before, hadn't she?
He was silent, just mumbling a "I think we need time apart. To think." Silently, as if he was afraid his body would betray him, he closed the distance between their bodies. Some days he wished he had found someone simpler, easier, less complex; she wasn't that. She wasn't just someone he could fuck senseless late at night: she was roses and galaxies and the colour between blue and red and yellow and green. What he meant was: she was different, she was an experience. He silently vowed to keep her in the way she would keep him, and love her until red turned blue. Silently, she closed the distance between their lips, and they were done talking.
