“And then there were those nights, where all I could feel was skin. That heat had been unbearable, and absolutely delicious. If I could die, I would go to hell for lust just for those nights alone. I would practically become him, both up and down, through taste and flesh. The sweat would make us soft enough to slide across each other’s bodies, like raindrops off a leaf.
It was warm, so warm, and we would leave the window open so the wind would blow our hair across our faces. It was warm enough that we couldn’t even feel the cold. The wind was loud enough that nobody would hear us, praise the lord. Those nights we would dance, skin against divine skin. Pressed together, like a wax seal to a letter. A love letter, from me to him, filled with soft praises and whispers of impossible promises.
As a bee is to a rose, and as a poet is to his craft, we were inseparable until morning came.”