i’m painting constellations across your body. tiny traces that map out where i’ve been. i’m leaving my fingerprints on every inch of you that i can reach. you’re slipping through my fingers as we rearrange ourselves beneath the sheets. i can feel your warm breath against the base of my neck. i can hear you gasping for air.
i could write an entire book between your thighs.
and with each word, each punctuation mark, each question, each command, with each fully formed sentence i write, i can make out another fragment that only barely escapes your mouth.
i’m lacing my fingers through your now-disheveled hair, intertwining myself completely.
our legs are tangled together in the same way that the roots of the trees behind my house overlap.
we’re conducting a symphony of bated breath and trembling lips, nomadic hands and pleading eyes.