My desire to devour everything is a dilemma. I have to admit that I now want you more than I did before.
I'm hooked up to my bed with my stomach crammed in and my face blanked out in pleasure.
The bed was covered in wine that had been spilt, making my skin stick knuckles gluey and evrything messy.
We took turns listening to Music while being enthralled by how the other got involved and fucked, creating a rhythm and constantly being surprised. I don't believe in it.
Then there was a soothing collision; there was nothing rough or unpleasant about it; everything was smooth. Also, it lacks words and has no limitations.
It is finished to make time for journeys. Like when you ask me if I missed you after spending months alone and I respond by coming to a sudden standstill, realising that neither of us had intended to miss each other, how can I tell you now? that I can still see you when I close my eyes, and that you departed this city, like many others, to satiate your unquenchable desire. Your eyes are weighted with that yearning.
Allow the mundane pathway that brought you here to pass without saying anything. I'll admit that I'm hoping to be more courageous if we receive more than this.
In other words, to finally and genuinely tell you how breathtakingly beautiful you are, and if the third time's the charm, to embrace my guilt as well.
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