this love is fucking right

The image of you whips my memory back to moments of heavy breathing and full hearts where no one occupies the planet, save you and I. Moments when lips foreheads hands meet. Clothes rustle between us and over us because this closeness isn’t enough - or it is fleeting, or the time apart has been too long. Or just that it’s the sole entity that feels real and right in the world. Is this different? It feels different. Images of you, memories of you, orgasms to you, your words, your laugh, your cadence, your tone. They all make me a schoolgirl walking away from her books at the end of term. They all make me hopeful, giddy, nurturing, seductive, loyal, devoted.