A feast for the senses… your soft voice, slow hands. Devour me. Blood runs dry when my mouth is empty. Bruised arms, I’ve clutched too hard.
I have a fever. Sweating out every last drop of your existence. I’m starved. Longing to smell your musty glistening hair.
Standing in the darkened shadows of the stairs, I can still see you. On the painful days, I rock back and forth, shaking the bed with my toes. The tremors comfort my whirling thoughts.

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