2.19

Fingers twisted through hair, pulling away from the roundling skull: sensuous slow is what I want. The heady rush of two hips aligned untouching, magnetic, suspended. The hot, dry heat of skin close upon skin upon skin, folded rolling pinched up skin in a tortuous disaster of desire, longed for long before I knew you true. Why this assonance of souls, a tonal resonance that mocks its owners with surety long before the words reach truth of meaning? We feel in love, surely, but it's the baby love of children. Touch, primal, the first and king of all senses, which yet infants feel keen. What is our distinction from these? We are circumspect eclectic derelicts, circling each anon abed, unable to love consummately, unwilling to leave consequently.