I’ve also been infatuated with another person’s bedroom. These tiny pieces of the universe that hold all their own. It’s in an honor to be invited in to another’s bed. It’s an invitation into their peace.
It’s like you’re a character in this book that everyone around you is writing, and suddenly you have to say, ‘I’m sorry, but this role isn’t right for me’. And you have to start writing your own life and doing your own thing.
—David Levithan, How They Met, and Other Stories (via splitterherzen)
Her laugh rumbles against the purr of his tongue. And that sweet essence that drips, drops, between these sheets.. Your heart. My beat.
I’ve been fiending for a hit.
I did it again. I took a shot of regrettable whiskey around two am and pulsed between the thought of never wanting to leave and needing you in that moment to want me more than anything before.
i know you said not to bother, to delete me from any communication, but my thumb is teasing the dial button and I can’t get your name off my tongue, like some burning spice that has ripped through my palette, leaving to salivate for more.
i know she’s with you. her perfect frame outlining the curve of your body as you lay blissfully in bed. the humming of your breath collecting her air, as you both exhale the same sweat of seduction, that image that taunts my red brimmed pupils, as I swig down another fire of your presence.
your name is a taunt that my fingers dance upon.