Writing Journal

Lust

Why do I crave you? Why do I ache for your breath of my skin? To feel you gasp in my mouth? That wild look in your eyes when suddenly you are more present than I could dream... singular thought, singular goal, to consume. Why is it barbaric and desirable?

Is this something base a relationship on? An addiction to my skin, and my skin welcomes it desperately. I promise myself to staunch the inferno, to throw dirt on the flames and walk away. But I know better, and so do you.

I wish you wouldn't look at me like that. I wish you forgot how to form your lips to mine in a way that liberates my instincts. I wish I could lie down to sleep and not feel your fingertips tracing my ribcage, your breath on my neck. I wish.

Your tongue makes me shiver. The thought of it touching me anywhere is unbearable. The way it curls, soft and pink against mine. The way it traces the lines of my face. The way it's anywhere within a 5 mile radius of my earlobe. Your shaky breath is worse.

Is this what they call love? After I've tasted and touched every part of you, and checked that list twice, what's left? It pangs in my chest; perhaps you have an answer?

Our tongues move together but they never speak. Your ears welcome my hot breath but not the anecdotes of my day. Your hands are always roaming, never still enough to just hold me. Our lips connect but our thoughts are far away.

There's a selfishness here. You give me your entire being, but with the hollow ring inside, I must take it back to the shop.

Your lips are not enough to talk me through my tears. Your tongue cannot laugh with me in the bright of day. Your hands cannot carry me when I am frozen with fear. You are a night time, back seat, corner of the parking lot love. That sounds quite too specific for my taste.