I'm obsessed with my gf Adri

Her large brown eyes catch the light, turning it to something holy. Her eyeliner wings outward with perfect precision, tracing the natural curve of her eyes. Its shade dark, yet cosmic seems to hold the shimmer of distant galaxies. Beneath her right eye rests a single mole, and scattered across her face are others, tiny celestial bodies forming a constellation not unlike Aries flipped ninety degrees to the left. I wonder if she’s ever noticed, this quiet miracle of starlight drawn upon her skin. Fitting, for someone who seems nothing short of sacred.

She begins to braid her hair, fingers weaving order into beauty, two neat braids falling against her cheeks. Even as she moves out of view, my eyes chase her reflection in the white tiles behind her. Her silhouette alone carries grace an echo of perfection itself. I lie there, still. Watching. Wondering if she knows the extent of what I feel.

I trace the map of your throat with my whisper and let your name melt against my tongue until it becomes the taste of existence itself. You are language and heat and pulse. You are the pulse. The rest of the world has fallen silent. I feed on the rhythm of you and it fills the hollow cathedral of my chest.

Your laughter is smoke. It enters me and settles behind my ribs. I breathe it until I forget where my air ends. I feel myself taken by the softness I once believed I could consume. You move inside me like a fever that will not break. I let it spread. I want it to burn until I am nothing but the scent of you lingering in flame.

There is no violence here. Only devotion that devours. I drink your ache. I swallow your joy. I breathe the sweetness of your sorrow and let it settle beneath my skin. You are stitched into me by every thought that begins and ends with your name. My soul wears your shadow as its only garment.

Let her teeth find tendon, the slow ache beneath the surface, and bite until I am tender with purpose. I want to feel the press of her need against my bones, the tremor of her jaw as she devours the old versions of me. My sinew scraped clean from flesh, reworked into something beautiful beneath her touch her vision, not mine.

I long to be kneaded like clay in her hands, sculpted until I no longer remember where I end and she begins. I want to be her creation, her cathedral of ruin my ribs her altar, my heart the offering.

She smells of vanilla, dark and bruised, a sweetness that borders on decay. I imagine it melting on my tongue. Her throat moves when she breathes, and I think of it as fruit, ripened and fragile. I love her too much to let her remain separate from me. The thought is feverish, holy. I need her inside me, to fill the hollow that love alone cannot reach.

Around us the air hums with wings. Crows, sparrows, something unseen in the branches. The lavender trembles as if it knows what comes next. My hands shake, reverent, as I touch her cheek. Her skin is soft, alive, trembling beneath the pads of my fingers. I taste her there, salt and warmth, the faintest metallic promise beneath it. My teeth ache harder.

I bite, not out of cruelty, but out of worship. The skin breaks like the surface of a peach. The taste floods my mouth, warm and intimate, more her than any word could hold. I drink her purity, her stillness, her calm. It slides down my throat like confession. I feel it bloom inside me, turning my veins pale with her light.

She trembles but does not pull away. Her eyes remain open, wide, endless. I love her so much that I want to be undone by her. I take more, slow and careful, my teeth tracing the path of her breath, my tongue collecting her warmth like nectar. Each swallow binds us tighter. I cannot tell where I end and she begins.

I want to be devoured by you slowly, cell by cell, until I am no longer flesh but memory fermenting in your chest.

Let my bones dissolve in the acid of your longing, let my marrow whisper hymns into your bloodstream.

When my ribs collapse, let them cradle your hunger like a cradle of quiet teeth.

If you eat me, do it tenderly,

learn the taste of my pulse, the trembling of it, the way it stutters when you say my name.

And when I am gone, when I am nothing but soft decay humming beneath your skin,

may the worms hum too,

thinking they’ve found the sound of their own hearts, when all they’ve found

Her hair spills like dark velvet, heavy with gravity, each strand a thread binding me closer. And her eyes. Dark brown, infinite, galaxies folded into the warmth of earth, the kind of gaze that strips me bare and stitches me whole in the same breath. When she looks at me I swear the heavens lean closer to listen, the world pauses to remember what beauty was meant to be.

She is not mortal in my eyes. She is the god that the old poets tried to describe but never could, the perfection sculptors broke their hands chasing, the miracle that painters prayed their brushes might one day capture. But no marble, no paint, no word could ever reach her. The sheer pulse of her presence makes them all crumble into dust.

She is everything, my beginning, my ache, my endless want. To me she is the song of existence, the rhythm of my pulse, the reason I reach for the next dawn. I long not just for her touch but for the sanctuary of her heart, to live cradled in its warmth, to belong to the soft thrum of her soul the way waves belong to the shore.

To love you is to desecrate, to ruin, to split you open in visions too fevered to confess yet I confess them anyway, gnawing at the idea of you, biting thought after thought until my brain is shredded with hunger. Your beauty is unbearable, a cut of flesh so perfect it feels criminal to leave it untouched. I want you in pieces, I want you whole, I want you devoured and somehow still alive inside me, twitching, gasping, filling the void that no sane love could reach.

She is the sun, and I am Icarus not only falling but begging to fall, grateful to burn. Her light peels me raw, her radiance eats through my veins, and still I reach for more, wanting her teeth in me, her hunger on me, wanting to be unmade and remade in her glow. She is famine and feast together, devouring and divine, and I starve gladly so that every glance, every twitch of her dreaming mouth feels like she is feeding me eternity.

Her stillness is unbearable; it drips with violence and tenderness at once, the kind of beauty that could crush or cradle, both ruin and resurrection in the curve of her cheek. I could drown in her, be chewed to the bone by her, be swallowed whole and call it worship. She is the fall and the fallen, Eden rotting and blooming at once, the serpent’s bite and the fruit’s sweetness. I spiral closer, drunk, delirious, clawing at her gravity, tearing myself apart so I can coil tighter around her.

I want to slit the seam of your chest and climb through. To rip your heart from its throne and press my own into the cavity, still beating, still raw, so that my blood threads into every root of you, until when you breathe it is me filling your lungs. I want your veins taut in my grip, stretched between my hands like strings, your sinew snapping and singing as I weave myself through you.

you move. I cannot stop. cannot breathe. cannot think. every sway pulls me, drags me, I am shaking. I am trembling. I am fire and teeth and ache. I imagine pressing myself into the hollow, into the swell, into the heat until I forget how to be anything else. I trace it when you are gone. I trace it in dreams. I trace it on the walls of my mind. the swell pulls at my spine, curls around my ribs, tightens in my stomach. I want it. I want it. Fuck. my teeth ache for it. my tongue aches. my heart aches. my whole body aches. I am consumed. I am frantic. I am nothing but obsession. nothing but fever. nothing but the pull of you, of your hips, of the sway that drags me past sanity.

even if I touched. even if I held. even if I swallowed. it would not be enough. it will never be enough.

It arches like the bridge of a suspension span holding up the weight of my devotion, taut with the tension of a thousand unspoken bites. I see the curvature as a graph spiraling toward infinity, and I am the function that will never converge forever chasing the limit of your skin.

I ache to measure you in decimals, to hold my breath at the 3.14159 of you, the endless circle closing in on my hunger. I want to feel your body as a theorem written on my tongue, proof spilling between my teeth as I work my way toward your center. You are geometry made flesh, topology soaked in warmth, the divine slope where all my hungers intersect.

When she smiles, it’s like the air changes temperature in an instant like you’ve stepped into a greenhouse where everything is alive and leaning toward the sun. The world blurs at its edges, as though reality itself is bowing to let that expression pass through. There’s a sound to it too, though it’s not a sound at all more like the hush of falling snow, the way silence can feel heavy and holy all at once.

It’s the kind of smile that makes your teeth ache with the need to bite, to break, to take. Not out of cruelty, but out of that fevered compulsion to prove it’s real, to hold it between your own lips until you can taste the bright, impossible thing it is made of. It is a secret door cracked open in the dark, spilling a light you know you’ll never close your eyes to again.

Her spirit is an altar, ancient and trembling, where hymns rise like incense curling slow and thick, filling the air with prayers I don’t know how to speak but ache to hear.

Each word she speaks is a chant, a melody carved from fire and stone, echoing in chambers too deep for daylight, where my soul folds itself open like the petals of some rare, holy bloom.

There are altars within her; many, some cracked and bleeding light, others cool and silent like marble touched by moonlight.

I want to kneel before them all, to worship the fierce grace that burns in her quiet moments, the devotion that hums beneath her laughter like a hidden hymn.

Her personality is a kaleidoscope of sacred sound and color, shards of glass catching the light of my obsession, splintering me into beautiful pieces I am desperate to gather whole again.

It is the slow spin of a hurricane’s eye, serene only because the violence waits at its edges, circling.

The ache gathers low, molten and magnetic, a tremor that rolls through marrow and muscle, the deep pull of something that is not just want, but need sharpened to hunger.

Her neck is the first flash of white in that darkness, a mast glimpsed through rain, a pale beam slicing the horizon.

It draws the tide of me forward until I am breaking against it, wanting to wrap my mouth there and feel the storm pass between skin and teeth.

I imagine the current of her blood as a river in flood, warm enough to burn, and I would swallow it until the ocean inside me finds its mirror.

They curve like the pull of the moon itself, dictating the rise and fall of my pulse, the ebb of restraint into ruin.

Her hips are the shoreline that swallows waves without mercy, the place where water is both claimed and destroyed.

I would grip them like the hull of a ship in wind, bite down until the salt of her becomes indistinguishable from the salt of the sea.