Some would call our relationship cold and pale as that single snowdrop
Sitting in the gutter, bright in the harsh grey of an autumn day, thought to be alone.
His eyes are endless variations of red-brown, and when I look in them, all I see is desire for me.
We are not in love; we are in lust; a magnetism of iron and loadstone.
When we are together, I feel like I have climbed to the Himalayan top
Where the air is thinned by this need for physical connection in all its entirety.
We are in lust, a lust hot to the touch that cools into a smooth wave of obsidian.
When his fingers brush along the cusp of my hips, my skin quakes like water
Startled by a single pebble, bringing to life a glass pool of what once went untouched.
His voice is a gentle brush of thunder that hails the temple of my body as if he were a holy choir.
And with every passion-fused beat of intimacy, our auras bloom into hellish red carnelian.
We are not in love, we are in lust. Yet in this lust, I’ve never felt more…Loved.