Untitled
Don’t. Don’t be.
Don’t be sorry. Don’t stop. Don’t leave me.
Don’t leave me because I need you and I need this and I am burning and it hurts and I don’t want it to stop, so stay here and burn with me.
He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t stop at all. The kiss becomes deeper, rougher, and her arms wrap around his neck and she’s against the cave wall and there is no space between them anymore. Her heart threatens to pound out of her chest and she can hardly breathe, she can only cling to him and feel feel feel feel, feel how he touches her face and how their lips move frantically against each other’s and how his hands run through her hair over and over again.
“Good, because I’m not sorry at all,” he whispers, low and close and against her neck, and her breath catches when his lips brush her skin. She smiles, too, smiles and almost laughs, and when he looks her in the eyes her fingers trace his lips and his cheekbones and his jaw, and some part of her thinks she should maybe still hate him, but she is dying and she is alive and she is on fire, and she doesn’t care because she wants to be this close to him, always.
She doesn’t know how she feels because she has never felt anything she can compare this to. She doesn’t even remember the name of the boy who’d kissed her when she was thirteen and she doesn’t think she’ll ever remember because he didn’t matter and because this is entirely new and different and nothing like it. It almost feels like her interview but in her interview she’d been happy and dizzy and light-hearted, and she is dizzy now but she doesn’t know if she’s happy and her heart is anything but light.
Don’t be sorry. Don’t stop. Don’t leave me.
Don’t leave me because I need you and I need this and I am burning and it hurts and I don’t want it to stop, so stay here and burn with me.
He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t stop at all. The kiss becomes deeper, rougher, and her arms wrap around his neck and she’s against the cave wall and there is no space between them anymore. Her heart threatens to pound out of her chest and she can hardly breathe, she can only cling to him and feel feel feel feel, feel how he touches her face and how their lips move frantically against each other’s and how his hands run through her hair over and over again.
“Good, because I’m not sorry at all,” he whispers, low and close and against her neck, and her breath catches when his lips brush her skin. She smiles, too, smiles and almost laughs, and when he looks her in the eyes her fingers trace his lips and his cheekbones and his jaw, and some part of her thinks she should maybe still hate him, but she is dying and she is alive and she is on fire, and she doesn’t care because she wants to be this close to him, always.
She doesn’t know how she feels because she has never felt anything she can compare this to. She doesn’t even remember the name of the boy who’d kissed her when she was thirteen and she doesn’t think she’ll ever remember because he didn’t matter and because this is entirely new and different and nothing like it. It almost feels like her interview but in her interview she’d been happy and dizzy and light-hearted, and she is dizzy now but she doesn’t know if she’s happy and her heart is anything but light.