honey on toast

 For months I've been playing with the cloudy memory of how he felt. And out of no where, he kissed me again. So vigorously my soul left my body, and then he held me throughout the night till it found it's way home. Full circle to break the spell. And although he won the fight, I won the war. The war that was never really between us. This was never really about him.

Tangled golden curls, soft lips, addictive hands. Keep touching me. Melting me. Too much honey on my toast. Running down my fingers, but he's taking care of each and every part, licking it off, one by one swirled by his tongue, feeling the back of his throat. And he looks beautiful with his eyes watering up as I make him choke on me. I'm a fucken flower in spring for him. Misty leaves, dewy skin. Rosy and blushing, as he peels the pedals of my body with his mouth. It's too much skin between us. Come closer to me. Let me count your freckles with my lips. He's touching all the elevator buttons with a childish smirk. Knowing how I just want the top floor. But he's holding the door, feeling it push against him as it tries to close, and then, releases, for him, staying open for a little bit longer. Letting me "ding" with anticipation on every. Single. Floor. I'm impatient and he loves the tease, but oh how the thin air will eventually make me lightheaded as I glance at the rooftop view with half-shut eyes, waiting for my soul to come back home.