superkitty

Late at night I move over you like a thin film of moisture on glass, searching for your hands amid the bedclothes. I take random patches of your skin into my mouth and try to fit your hipbone into the curve behind my knee. My fingers rest on top of your head and my cheek finds your jawbone and I fight the intoxication of the smell of your scalp. I need to know how my lips feel against your eyelids. The room built by my hanging hair contains nothing but our faces and your mouth is a field of flowers on fire. And what will you do, such a quiet boy you are. You don't touch me or kiss me and of course there will be no longing gazes or holding my hand or any of that, no, because when I open my eyes you won't be there, you're not there and you never were - a figment of my fevered imagination, conjured up by the twin overheated engines throbbing between my legs and beating in my chest. My bones are cold, they need you. Pressed to you is the only way I want to spend the quicksand hours between nightfall and the bleating alarm clockand the only way I won't.