It is a list of things I cannot touch:
It is in the unwrapping of my deepest insecurities, laid bare for him to scrutinize, treasure and kiss.
Every white-lined scar that happened before him becomes a stanza of poetry to be read together, each imperfection held as delicately and reverently as an egg.
It is in the moments before and after sleep overtakes, my thighs satiny and slick, his hips instinctively straining for my bottom’s heat.
Even in dreams I am his.
It is in the power of words not spoken: a quirk of my lips; an arching brow; a thumb on my chin, honoring me with his fingerprints.
It is embedded in my growing tapestry: each caress, each sharp sting is a detail in my fabric.
I am braille. Trace the stripes and patterns written on my skin to know us.
You can read it in the way we move, in the occasional blue-black clouds, and more often in a cherry sunset, peeping out from beneath my panties.
It is in the way his ribs lift me and his knees embrace me.
This is the story of how we fit.
This is the story of what we do.
I want stress relief; I want to relieve your stress. I want butterflies, anxiety and comfort all wrapped in a passionate package and tied with a belt.
Until then, I’m barely pink. You know what to do.