4.10

Sunstrike glances shoot out from dark curls, silvering the air between with suspended immotile heartbeats. My whole frame shakes with each thunderous clap of ventricle and valve as my body counts the moments until you shift to look at me again: a miracle of chance with no obvious course of capitalization. I want you. I want these argent looks to only always be for me. My only thought is silence. Still, my heart blows me back into my seat with thudding importunity. Don't go. Don't speak. Don't look. Don't seek her eyes, filtered through hair that falls manifold and luxurious, a cultivated unrestraint that speaks to waterfalls and high winds drawn on ancient maps, a curlicue circus of black that serves to frame a fair face. I'm stuck dancing between staring and shuddering, hoping for you to put my name on your lips even as a whisper unbreathed. I would fall, no bounds of constraint, headlong for you.
Whose fingertips filter ecstasy by sliding sinuous along your nape, silver skin soft, hair fallen in their face, a thousand wisps feathered on their lips, sensuous to bursting with the smell of you? If no one, then: I beseech you. Why not me?