5.2.18

Lipstick kisses on index cards make the best love notes.
Rogue Volupte #7 Lingerie Pink.
Slipped under the door in the hushed darkness of the night.
They won't be retrieved until morning, when she rises with the sun and finds it staring at her on her floor.
I complain that I don't know what I'm doing, but maybe I do,
because I keep doing it.
I'm craving her touch,
but I'm also craving just a little bit more.
I miss the cuddling, wrapped up in the scent of crushed coconuts,
the excitement that ran rigorously through my veins
with every text and every touch.
I miss the dim light and the soft hum of your breath against my neck.
Instead, I weave my fingers with hers and bite my tongue as anger sears through my veins
and I desperately rewrite my messy thoughts to fit your narrative.
I turn the page and look to her -- innocent, caring, kind, adorable.
She actually cares about me.
But this is different.
It's delicate, too soft for me to handle.
I am too used to ruining everything I touch
to be trusted this much.