I believe
in the wine-taste of your lips,
the scotch on your tongue.
I believe
in the burn behind your eyes.
I believe
in the fire of your touch,
the way the muscles of your back and shoulders work
beneath your skin when you move.
I believe
in the screaming ache under your voice,
the soft white noise of questions unasked,
of pleas unanswered.
I believe in you,
and the precious need of your love,
and all the facets of it
as yet unknown.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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