Palms sweating, mind erased of all logical sense from the haze you have contorted into.
Desire so strong to slide your hand down the inside of thigh to make once blank thoughts turn into body numbing distractions. Only to make it easier to picture your lips against theirs. Tongues flopping like high-out-of-water fish. Twisting and shakily within the convents of your mouth. Hand shakes as it curls around the neck, grasping tight enough to ensure no retreat, yet soft enough to imply meaning. You separate, wiping your lips of all that the lustful episode procured.
Thats all it was.
Lust.
Attraction.
Desire.
That is all we were capable of, the pleasure and satisfaction we could bring one another. With no attachment and no fortitude to continue beyond sexual means. We were slaves to passion.
Our tracing fingers were are instruments. Our positions were the art, sculptures that we embodied. Our moans, free expression.
We do not love each other, only our work, our bodies, the only place we find reason.
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