#timegone

Actually watched almost everyone's insta story

I think about telling you to your face. I think about telling you how your tongue wrapping and unwrapping around mine made me think things I shouldn’t. Like how I was able to think at all. Or about how with every touch of our lips, this tangled little web we weave gets more and more jangled. And I get more and more lost. I want to tell you how these gusts of wind blow the scent of your body past my nose. I think about how the feel of your hands on my body is feverish, chaotic, but the feel of your skin is timid, and less sincere. I think about telling you. I think about how you’d react to that. I think about how I’d explain it to you. See, you aren’t mine. Even now, as we stand here, the rest of the world asleep, your hand tugging on my zipper, you belong to someone else. I think about this the most. About how you are borrowing my body, how I’m letting you get off without a warning, this time. Like the last time, and the time before that. How long has this been going on? How long have we stood here, in this mock lover’s embrace? I don’t know how long this will continue, and I’d be a dirty fucking liar if I said I didn’t like it, because I do. I like you. I’d be a dirtier liar if I said that was the whole truth. Can we ignore that? Can we ignore the flashing headlights? Can we stay? I want you, to want me, as much as my body wants to devour yours and I think you’d be the dirtiest liar of them all if you said you didn’t want that either. Because I know something he doesn’t. I know how your body feels at 2 in the morning, on a hilltop, on the coming end of winter. I know what your tongue tastes like when it’s drenched in desperation. I know what your shaky hands feel like when it’s searching for answers and it finds my zipper. Do you? I think about asking you him that, as he wraps his arms around her, possessive. I think about telling you to your face. But I just stay quiet.