Almost Perfect

26 06 2011

My mind is where smut dwells. In slumber, love is sweet, soft kisses, caresses, embraces. Not to be disturbed.
Awake, it is all consuming. In heat, throbbing and aching. These moods are met with heavy sighs of annoyance. Similar to the ones I let out when he gives in and it is too short.
A ruined day stirs hurt egos. I don’t know romantic love without touch. Words are never enough. How can he live without me if he can live without having me?
This man of mine. Even in sobriety I want to hit. A fire burning. Now a sigh of remembrance of being satisfied.



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