the only thing my brain wanders to is fucking him. i don’t even want to write about it, i don’t want to make art, i want to climb him like a tree and swallow him whole from the top down.

how is this the only thing i’m good at? the only thing fingers and tongue know well enough to follow faithfully.

oh i do miss being known, but there’s a vast something sliding through the space, leviathan’s sides brushing against the glass, keeping me full. distracted.

i’m too conscious of my own body, nerves lit like a fucking bonfire. the drag of fabric on skin, the weight of muscle, breast. i know the heat of his palms, the brushfire in their wake. fixate on it.

tonight it’s the feeling of his fingers sliding up the sides of my scalp, the strength of them keeping me anchored. it’s kissing him like consumption, a starved collapse into the well of his mouth. it’s sitting astride him, holding his face, that perfect fullness, the gold he soaks my senses in. i need it.

but there’s no ache, no longing, because it’s mine and i can have it. when my blood calls to it, succumbs to the siren song, i can give in to it, feed him the overflow, make him radiant.