It might be me, or it might even be her, but even in the coldest of times, she's there to fill me with warmth. Her smooth, silky hair wraps around me like a warm bath of love, soaking into my pores, cleansing me of my sadness. Her enticing gaze, her smooth skin, everything about her brings me in, and I lose myself, wrapped in her arms, caressing every inch like it's the last time I will. Surrounded by her warm, sweet smell, I will stay locked in her clutches, a willful prisoner, a slave to her temptations, to my own addiction. She knows I'll come back for more, and that she has me hooked like a junkie, and that she doesn't have to do much to get me to crawl back to her. Lust is redundant and played out. What we have is a constant need to give in to our cravings and feed our morbid curiosity by indulging in embracing desires, both hidden and secret. She truly warms me to my core. The faintest brush of her flesh brings a bonfire of warmth. How I love her.
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Some Things Never Change: A Book Dedicated to Absolutely Nothing At All
RandomA book dedicated to thoughts, poems, stories, questions, answers, recipes. All sorts of fuckery happening up in here. Also, ignore my very ambiguous and sarcastic title. I do have a very cynical and often bitter sense of humor. Anyways, there are st...
