It’s not the taste of your lips

the stroke of your hand

against my face, through my hair, across my brow

when everyone is watching and no one cares that sets my blood on fire.

My head against your chest,

the pounding of your heart ringing into my ear

is what I long for, what I would die for, what I would go to my grave for

but alas

the truth is

I would prefer you do that

my darling

my heart

my love.

Inktober: Drooling