Mistakes That Sound Like Poetry

lust.

She stood, leaning against the wall, her pastel purple hair creating a veil between her jaded eyes and the world she had grown to hate.
As he approached the figure their eyes met and sparks of recognition flew through the both of them. She nodded and tilted her head over to the east. The man smiled without emotion and started off in the direction. The woman with the jaded eyes fiddled with an emerald colored string tied around her neck. She pulled the key attached to the end out from her shirt. The memories flooded her mind again as she blinked twice and wandered away.
...
He opened the door and there she was, the pastel banshee, the rainbow of pain.
His.
They had left each other so long ago, nearly a year, but they always did this. A night here, a weekend there, a stolen kiss or a mysterious look. They were each other's kryptonite, their own personal hells trapped in human form, each one a drug the other couldn't quit.
They didn't love, they barely talked, but they were passionate with their bodies as an artist was with her work.
She breathed him in and he slid his hand around her waist. Her arms slithered around his neck and they pulled each of their bodies together. They treasured each other's forms and worshiped them as well as they knew how, with kisses and fingers and breaths made short by gasps. Hands caressed skin that heated as they kissed, lips brushed across blushing cheeks and half lidded eyes met in passion.
In lust.