His name is unimportant compared to his face. It’s slender, skeletal shape milky in the moonlight, backseat of your rented red Mustang becoming humid with each shared burst of carbon dioxide. In it you remember the stereotypical childhood days of running, playing, and finding. Never finding yourself in the woods of your incessant mind that you traveled so deeply, even then in the supposed years of carefree. Who knew you would not understand yourself still? On the eve of your twenty fifth year? When your own mind played tricks on you?
His hand, soft as sleeping breath, falls on yours. What is love, anyway? You think to yourself as you turn to him with your cheeks the color of the reddest wine, lips quivering like leaves in the wind, eye pupils dilating in a split second. You know this is wrong, but he makes it feel right. His eyes, the palest green now filled the darkest desire, bear into your soul. Seeming to say, “You know you want this. You want me.” You can’t say no. The only thing you can do I slide your hand onto the side of his creamy face, whisper his name, calling forth the daemons you thought only plagued your dreams, your conscience, your imagination, your everything.
Your hand is cold, goose bumps form under your touch as you let your hand free, roaming wherever it wishes. Into his hair, behind his neck, onto his shoulders, but then you want to back track. You want to touch his lips. The fleshy beings that suffered your spirit every moment you thought of them. The craving of them on you. The wanting of them on your own. You remember your father always said that eyes were windows into the soul. But what of lips? You ponder as your own thin, bony fingers touch the soft lust of his lips. It melts into your skin, it seeps into your casing, it dissolves into your bloodstream like a drug.
“Intoxicating,” escapes your lips as his eyes dissipate into yours.
“What is?” He whispers, keeping everything a wonderful, beautiful secret.
“You.”
You know when you look back it’ll sound so cliché, but it means so much, and you know he understands. When he laces his fingers around your wrist to you jump, more of his drug fills you. You want more. When he leans forward you can’t wait longer for him to complete the motion, you complete it. Your lips on his lips. When his hand flows from your wrist to behind your neck, pushing you closer into his dosage you quiver letting his scent fill your sanity. As well as your insanity. When his name enters your thoughts you move let it out of it’s containment, but his tongue enters and won’t let your intrusion intrude.
His idle hand begins to slide down your back, and, ever so gracefully, lands on the small of it. You exhale. Pairs of lips fall apart from each other in the space of half a second. It was the longest half second of your life. You move your hand onto his chest making up for lost time. You feel it rise and fall. Rise and fall. Over and over until your breathing matches his.
When the pairs of lips open to inhale and exhale together you realize you have became one person. One entity. One being. One soul. For a spilt second you feel guilt. But it’s fleeting. You remember the lips on yours and you quickly forget whose lips they’re suppose to be. Who they should be. But they are not. They are his.
But he, suddenly, grows a conscience, and separates the passionate bodies from one another. “This isn’t right.” His lips still pouted from the deep kissing.
“What do you care?” He has, yet again, pulled the thoughts and truth right out of you with a simple string of words, “You started this, this whole thing.”
“I know what I have done.” His light eyes empty into your dark ones, like a candle illuminating a room he fills his sorrows into you.
“It’s too late to do anything about it.”
He shakes his head ever so slightly at the thought, “I can’t. I-I mean - I’m sorry…”
“You’re sorry?” Red, penetrating anger fills you and burns holes into his skin. “That’s it? This is all? All that chasing and you let me go?”
His mouth opens to speak but closes quickly until his whole body and its heat is out of the car, then he has the nerve to stammer, “I-I am s-so sorry.” And he walks away.
Just walks away.
His hand, soft as sleeping breath, falls on yours. What is love, anyway? You think to yourself as you turn to him with your cheeks the color of the reddest wine, lips quivering like leaves in the wind, eye pupils dilating in a split second. You know this is wrong, but he makes it feel right. His eyes, the palest green now filled the darkest desire, bear into your soul. Seeming to say, “You know you want this. You want me.” You can’t say no. The only thing you can do I slide your hand onto the side of his creamy face, whisper his name, calling forth the daemons you thought only plagued your dreams, your conscience, your imagination, your everything.
Your hand is cold, goose bumps form under your touch as you let your hand free, roaming wherever it wishes. Into his hair, behind his neck, onto his shoulders, but then you want to back track. You want to touch his lips. The fleshy beings that suffered your spirit every moment you thought of them. The craving of them on you. The wanting of them on your own. You remember your father always said that eyes were windows into the soul. But what of lips? You ponder as your own thin, bony fingers touch the soft lust of his lips. It melts into your skin, it seeps into your casing, it dissolves into your bloodstream like a drug.
“Intoxicating,” escapes your lips as his eyes dissipate into yours.
“What is?” He whispers, keeping everything a wonderful, beautiful secret.
“You.”
You know when you look back it’ll sound so cliché, but it means so much, and you know he understands. When he laces his fingers around your wrist to you jump, more of his drug fills you. You want more. When he leans forward you can’t wait longer for him to complete the motion, you complete it. Your lips on his lips. When his hand flows from your wrist to behind your neck, pushing you closer into his dosage you quiver letting his scent fill your sanity. As well as your insanity. When his name enters your thoughts you move let it out of it’s containment, but his tongue enters and won’t let your intrusion intrude.
His idle hand begins to slide down your back, and, ever so gracefully, lands on the small of it. You exhale. Pairs of lips fall apart from each other in the space of half a second. It was the longest half second of your life. You move your hand onto his chest making up for lost time. You feel it rise and fall. Rise and fall. Over and over until your breathing matches his.
When the pairs of lips open to inhale and exhale together you realize you have became one person. One entity. One being. One soul. For a spilt second you feel guilt. But it’s fleeting. You remember the lips on yours and you quickly forget whose lips they’re suppose to be. Who they should be. But they are not. They are his.
But he, suddenly, grows a conscience, and separates the passionate bodies from one another. “This isn’t right.” His lips still pouted from the deep kissing.
“What do you care?” He has, yet again, pulled the thoughts and truth right out of you with a simple string of words, “You started this, this whole thing.”
“I know what I have done.” His light eyes empty into your dark ones, like a candle illuminating a room he fills his sorrows into you.
“It’s too late to do anything about it.”
He shakes his head ever so slightly at the thought, “I can’t. I-I mean - I’m sorry…”
“You’re sorry?” Red, penetrating anger fills you and burns holes into his skin. “That’s it? This is all? All that chasing and you let me go?”
His mouth opens to speak but closes quickly until his whole body and its heat is out of the car, then he has the nerve to stammer, “I-I am s-so sorry.” And he walks away.
Just walks away.
