You're the lover, in awe of whom I am in those movements when you're too lustful for me to say anything, remotely important.
When we shall be sailing in dreams of pleasure, you may come lie next to me, take my hand in yours, and whisper the important-ness of life. How together is only with each other, and how pleasure can only be fathomed only in each other's arms and the realms of the bed-sheet. How love exists in the pleasure following thus. You may also tell me, how much you love me, occasionally. You see, my soul-wrenching-best-friend, I want to feel your love and touch it. My hearing shall be numb, either way. I want to feel your jealousy, not by how cold and distant it makes you feel, but how animalistic and wild it makes you. Not by how you slowly make your way to the door, but how strongly you tug at my skin. My skin. It lies dead in your absence. It occupies its space, waves out a high to strangers, but is dead in its deep recesses. It is your skin to mine that shall bring it to life. Your breath to mine that shall awaken that strange soul that does not bare itself to the common.
I have realised, miracles do not happen. They come in people. In lean people, with a weird gum to teeth ratio and addidas shoes.
You unravel the wild side in me like a mother, the hunger in her child. Carefully, with full of love. And as I quiver with rage and beguiling sexuality, you sit like a patient observer holding a baby in arms.
You've been doing great, my friend.
I suggest, we hug now. And a kiss shall follow.