‘Kisses covering gashes.’
You whispered. In some nights, I could hear you whisper at the tail end of your breath. When passion devoured us senselessly. I could hear your words.
Etched in the moment of tenderness. Of wild excitement.
Holding my head steady, you said to me, ‘my wild wild love.’
I only stared into your dark lovely eyes. Intense with heat. Treacherous with desire. A bottomless pit of abyss that I fell into. Repeatedly. The unending cycle of pleasure.
It was the deep end of your gaze that tore my chest open.
Your luscious pair of lips. It was maddening. I clamped my mouth onto it. Forcing surrender.
And you. I want to burn into.
“Madox,what is the name of that hollow at the base of a woman’s neck? At the front. Here. That hollow about the size of an impress of your thumb?”
My favourite line in The English Patient by Michael Oondatje.
I wanted to know too. It drove me mad too. That same anatomy in you.
You, the adventurer. Raveled in all things new and different. You made it a vocation to explore the world. You brought back stories and coloured my nights with it.
I only have desire to explore you.
Between us. The boundaries cease to exist.