Floetry: the Book of Poetry

Tension

// Tension //

His eyes,
Obsidian and piercing,
Colder than glaciers in the North Pole,
They take in every inch of me,
Watching,
Waiting,
Predicting what would turn me on the fastest,
Or what would make me beg the quickest,

His touch,
Dear god,
Nothing could ever prepare me for what his touch does,
The gentle caress of his fingertips against my freshly shaven skin,
Goosebumps rise,
My heart races,
It's nothing I could ever get used to,
When coarse hair meets bare skin...
God.

His lips,
They set a trail, marking every inch of me,
Claiming his territory known as my body,
Like a canvas,
He etches his affection for me at the apex of my thighs,
And he can't ignore my vocal response,
Not even if he wanted to—
He is an artist,
Splaying his imagination,
Bringing his fantasy to life,
Turning me into a product of his honed skill,

But he probably already knows this,
Considers it,
Keeps it stored in his brain,
As well as the tip of his tongue,
To personally remind me every time that...
He is a cocky bastard.

And such an insensitive sweetheart.
I miss him like a fool.