He pushes and pulls in all the right ways, and she’s helpless against him.
She forgot what it was like to feel wanted.
They’ve already meshed their souls, braided their brain stems,
and now it’s easy to forget anyone ever discussed drawing a line.
There’s a certain trail of consequence that bleeds out of fingertips.
We grow up being cautioned, taught that touch will hurt us
like each fingerprint is all hellbent fervor and skin prison sins.
But she forgets that as his breath fogs the hollows of her collarbones.
She’s grown a certain disregard for any sort of warning.
Life is supposed to be messy, she sighs with her fingers in his hair,
And if this makes us sinners, hell with you ought to be a riot.


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