Hopeless romantic—I want to cry. Feelings pressed so deep, they die
quiet deaths between sighs. I don’t know what you see in this eye—a
dim-lit portrait, painted in the bruises of love dye. Questions coil
around my spine, but the heaviest one hisses: “Who the **** am
I?”

When we kiss, let’s make it sacrament—a whispered heresy, tongues
speaking in wet prophecy. But you don’t kneel for any father. You’ve
made altars from broken men with daddy-issue blueprints. And I—
just another one trying to fix what wasn’t mine to mend.

My fingertip—a brushstroke on your bitten lip, painting the hunger
before it slips. You wear love like fingerprints around your throat,
scarred tender from where I once held your breath like a prayer.

You're unsure of yourself, but I make you a shoreline—soft enough to
land on, wild enough to drown in. You become my bay, my mouth’s
favorite practice ground. My wreckage. My beach.

Each kiss tastes like searching for sin between your teeth—warm, wet
confessions we never speak. A shared gasp for air in the ache between
moans, as if pleasure could ease the pressure clawing beneath our
bones.

Would we love longer, or be like everyone else, hoping to just ****
better? Could your heart even measure what my hands now own?
Your body echoes beneath sweat-glazed skin, like a haunted song I
still hum. The feelings crawl, then collapse—pulling me under. Like
a dream that bites back. One that begs to be real. But this love has
only a few moments to taste that real.