Hands run through hair; lips, nails, and teeth on skin. Closeness, warmth. I hate warmth, but touch is tempting enough to tolerate it. Short, shallow breath. Panting, gasping, begging, whispers and shivers. Fingertips on sensitive skin raise goosebumps and neck hair. Eyes closed, lights out, quiet please for release echo in darkness. Denial.
Flowing cloth like cares tossed aside to be forgotten in the moment. But no touch there. Teasing, touching, tempting, tasting, tormenting. Blood flows hot in waiting veins, dripping pleasures splash on cold concrete floors and twisted linens and on skin, mixing like potion, filling air with aromas of passion.
In that moment, identity doesn’t matter. Only lips, fingers, skin, hair, breath, and pleasure. In such darkness, how can eyes matter except when lips gently fall on their fluttering lids? Touch creates form, texture tone, and sound desire.
If moonlight falls it falls through midnight cloths of cloud and rain then through dirty windows to silhouette intertwining human forms. Tied in knots amongst themselves. When identity doesn’t matter, worries fade and with worry gone, lust and passion become pure, as pure as they *can* be.