pretty little red boy,
why do you cry?
you were the one who told me that the blisters on your skin were left by my lips. as if you could only feel the burn of their disappearance and not the stinging of their pleasure.
the pad of my thumb rested on your cheek as i traced meaningless words onto your skin: writing a story for no one. i could feel you tremble under my touch, as if my soft fingertips were a constant reminder of what you once liked.
little red boy, why do you lie? (please don't. i can't take it anymore)
i know you miss her and i know she was the soft sounds of your home. she was the soft whispers of the wind: comforting. she reminded you that companionship was real. she was the dipping of your ankle in cold water, relishing sensations and perplexing goosebumps dancing on your skin.
