(OliviousMaximus) Your hands placed on my chest all digits spread across breasts. Feel my heartbeat skip at the sensation, of your finger's grip causing palpitations. The emancipation proclamation, of an emotional connection.
(T. Lee) *(says connection at the same time)* connection is all we really want
to avoid whenever we remember how this usually plays out
Your friends won’t like me and the ones that do like me a little too much
My friends won’t like you and the ones that do Like you a lot too much.
In the beginning, You’ll remind me I’m a work or art. Somewhere between 2 to 4 years our bright red nuance fades out to gray, like your favorite shirt, I mean your shirt, that’s my favorite to wear. -washed too many times it used to have stains from the first food festival we went to, but those left, I used to wear it, but I’ll leave too when you tell me I’m a real piece of work. and that my art is shit. and that you’re tired of this relationshit. Shit. At least you never hit me. with anything other than words, or silence
But back to our regular programming: We’re anything but quiet tonight. aren’t we.
(OliviousMaximus) Because our past stories are wiped clean, like your internet search history. A clean slate, to make new memories without debate. Only holding on to what makes us shiver and quake, I see you’re hesitant to get on-top of me. So hear this plea, “TEACH me something, anything.” Because I yearn for these ears to burn, by the drowning drone of your echoing moans. So, dismiss the rudeness of my Australian Kiss, that makes you flounder, from these smooches down under. Sorry, pardon me for speaking too directly. It’s just, that….
You’re doing something to me. I can’t explain it. Should I hate this?