air
we breathe same air but all I desire is feeling your breath on my skin, hands on my hips, and lips on my thighs.
I wish to woo thee to love a person like me, accept my faults with Macbeth's vaulting ambition not caring about others glares at our 'unnatural' passion over our similar built bodies.
but just as the tragic hero this is a battle we can not win, I am too delude by my heritages presumptions of what is right, and what's is too be mocked, and you?
You are unable to love me in the way I do, you can only love him like that.
