I Bet You Won't • Larry

37. How it Feels to Love -H

journal,

the curve of his hips, the little dip in his spine right before you reach his bum, little dimples on either side framing it. how his small hands press against my chest when he pushes me  onto the bed, and it feels as if they get stuck there, because when his hands go to fumble with my jeans, i still feel the trail of fire that his fingerprints leave on my skin.

how his kisses leave my skin burning, searing open with every second his lips linger on my chest, stomach, arms, thighs. how he can make me feel like i've been dipped in a bout of acid and seared until i'm nothing more than ashes on the ground when he touches me, his small hands ripping open my body with little flicks of his wrist.

and i wonder why i need him so much, why my heart aches for the air he breathes into my lungs with every drag of his fingers down my chest, i wonder why the fire in my heart is nothing more than a few embers of arousal, spiritual or physical may it be, i wonder why those little flecks of a forgotten fire remain unlit until i watch him walk into the room, i watch him grab my hair and tug it gently, but hard enough to be the match that lights the ashes, i watch him as he pushes me down, his lips trailing fire down my body as the fire in my chest spreads to his own, small hands roaming for the water he doesn't really need to put it out.

and i wonder why i gasp for air when he's not near me, when he's not in the same room as me, when his hands aren't burning holes through my chest, why my lungs feel like they've shriveled up except i know, i know why i can't breathe when he isn't here and it's not because his lips breathe the air i need into my chest, it's because he is the air i need.

his small hands that claw through my chest and tear me limb from limb, the curve of his hips that make me want to drown us both in something so painful it can only describe my love for him, his little fingers that scratch and claw at my back, engraving his love into my skin is the air i need. he doesn't breathe the air into me, he is the air i breathe and i find myself choking on the atmosphere when we're not in the same room, when the oxygen that wraps around my lungs and lulls me to sleep is suddenly gone along with his small body.

and he wonders why i ask myself if it's real or not, because it sure as hell seems like a fantasy when he presses his bare chest against mine and i see angel wings poking out from behind his back. and one day i fear that his small hands, pressing into the spot where my back arches the highest, his fingers, trailing lines of fire down my chest and onto my stomach, his mouth, telling me that the aching burn on my lips is a praise of his love, his way of igniting my skin in flames will all be gone.

that my air will slam the door he pressed me up against as it runs out of whatever mind lock it's been stuck in, that the hands and fingers and lips and dimples on his back will take the fire they've lit across my body with them, ripping my skin off piece by piece until i'm left with nothing but a sullen memory of when they used to be glued to the clothes thrown in the corner of the room, when they used to belong to the embers in my chest.

his lips that declare the praise my lungs strain to breathe in, his fingers that set the fire in my body that make it so i can't inhale the love i so ache for, his eyes that look into mine and speak the words his mouth, his hands, the fire in his chest can't, whispering through clenched teeth and blue rings around the dark pupils that my body is a temple and that he wants the fire in my chest to burn forever and ever, until i'm locked in a coffin and i can somehow escape because of the ignited embers from the grave beside me.

his eyes telling me that it's him, that it's only him that can blow flames from his mouth deep into my soul, that it's only him who can push me down onto the bed and have me sink so far that i drop down from the sky and come back again, only him who can lift my legs over my shoulders and light the fire in other places than my chest, the burn ripping through my body and only him that can hold me once he's done, once the flames turned to ashes and his chest is pressed tightly against my back that is now littered with scratches that mark his name.