Don’t ask me about his lips. How they ruby and burn. Stretch full over white teeth, taut like a drum. I want him to make music of me.
Don’t ask me about his hands. The way they are scarred with stories. How they slide thick down his legs as I stare. Mouth cotton; eyes hungry.
Don’t ask me about my hunger. The way my stomach drops tight when he looks at me. The way my palms itch for his bones. Don’t ask me about my fear. The way he comes to me.
How I open my mouth to say “Yes” and it comes out “I’m sorry.”His Lips, Clementine von Radics (via clementinevonradics)