Sunday, January 30, 2011
He does not kiss me fully, and his conscience touch stems out of distraction. He does not like to make magic love to magic music. To him, they were two different types of awesome, and you could only really pay attention one at a time, without disrespecting the sanctity and devotion of the other. The room had to be dark, for the most part. It made voices spit fiery balls of desire and hands plunge into a desperate search for treasure. And when you finally did allow light to stream in, you weren't surprised at the person holding your face, because you didn't know who you had just been with. When he slept, he rested his arm between my diverged breasts. Like an arrow through a heart, it was bound to be a mess; and so it was.