FICKLE

I smell your breath on my skin but you’re not here, I know. I crave lips that fit mine like flesh to bone. Your lips intoxicate me. Its desire for mine weakens my composure and I lose myself in the hedonism it brings me. Your body has been made into my shrine. Let me worship with reverence, on my knees, lips in motion. You understand this language that I speak, innately. From it, you were born, with it, we will merge. Its primality burns me. Your touch makes me bleed like a candle. We dream, we imagine, but very rarely do all these things materialize in the physical realm. A miracle that sits on the lips of the wind. Moments orchestrated by the hands of fate. A scent once unknown, now lingers on my skin.

— Tolú