You’re the perfect piece of art, trapped behind glass. I can see you. I can hear you.
But I can’t touch you.
No matter how perfectly the memory of your skin lingers on my fingers. Nor can I taste you, despite how your taste sits in my mouth.
Your skin is ingrained in my body to the point where if I close my eyes, the phantom of you fucks me slowly—next to me, under me, on top of me.
I came inside you. And now that memory aches.
I will again. Mouth. Cunt. Ass.
When you come home.
