Tell me, what should I do? Should I run to you and pull you into my arms? Should I kiss you softly and confess every terrible, tender thing my heart has carried for you? Should I stay silent instead, pretending that loving you has not become the axis my whole world turns?
You praise me with sweet words and call me perfect, yet my heart trembles beneath the weight of such tenderness. I have spent so long believing myself unworthy that your affection feels almost unbearable. And still, some fragile part of me aches to believe you mean every word.
Like a man dying of hunger, I lose myself between your thighs, worshipping at the altar of your body. My tongue moves across your skin like a poet’s trembling hand across paper, writing sinful verses only the two of us will ever know behind these closed doors.