Whenever I see your face I itch to sin.
I would inhale the saltiness of your skin, and the spice your chest radiates.
I would memorize how your ribs ripple when you groan.
I would pray silently that behind each closed door your fingers will crawl all over me.
I would do it all and much more just so I know what it's like to sin after seeing your face.
I would love to know what you desire when you see my face.
Do you want my submission slipping from my lips?
Do you hunger for the heave of my chest, or do you pine for the arch of my foot?
Do these thoughts ever beckon you like they do to me?
If they do, why don't we take the trip together?
Why don't we uncover the pins and needles behind our masks, and revel in the fragility of our bodies?
Why don't we stitch together words that tumble between bated breaths, and lay them down underneath these stained sheets?
Why don't you trace your fingers along my backbone, while I hope you can coax it to act out against you?
If only I could hear what you think when our eyes meet, if only I can sketch out the itch to sin that suddenly invades me.

So it started simple.
You held on, gave me words and painted pictures.
The tip of your tongue held words, mountains rising and rivers running.
The way your eyes suddenly dim, the cracks show. They're deeper and each day they carve their way closer to your core.
Your hidden starlight wards away hurt, only you don't let it seep into you; to help and guide you.
When you take your steps with confidence, your hips sway and that familiar smile. The strength shining through and shrouding your yearnings and weaknesses.
When you walk I beam, my thoughts wrapping around my confidence in you.
The pillar you represent, a sword to fight off loss and hurt.
You are light, intertwined with my darkness.
The swirling fear dissipating with each word you say, like a prayer.
You stand and fall, but you always fight.

It's a slightly faded memory clouded by shimmering hope, but I can still remember the motions.

The most prominent sound was the creaking, whether of bones or of the bed springs. I would toss and turn all night, always emotionless and restless.
There was always a soft hissing when it was quiet, but when there was sound it was of soft guitars strumming. A voice that's cracked but clear resounds and reminds of all the turmoil.

The view itself was different. It wasn't what I had expected, nothing too dull or dreary. Instead all the colors were brighter, sharper. Except a certain halo that surrounded my proximity that seemed like a color vacuum.

The smell was dominated by the familiar scent of stale cigarettes, never fresh cigarette smoke. Sometimes it was the lingering aroma of a week old perfume still nestled into the fabric of my pillow. It's as if it was still there to help me remember that time never stopped.

These are the distinctive memories, it's how I am reminded of a time when I felt lonely.

I can barely remember the contours of your face,
but I memorized the way your hands bend and the way your fingers curl. It's because I can imagine them pressing against my ribs.

Your name comes to me in vague shades of letters, but I remember the tone of your voice.  It's because I can imagine you howl all night,  and if I feel calm enough I can imagine you whisper my name.

I can almost feel the ridges of your throaty laugh rustle against my skin.  I can almost picture the vivacious color of your eyes staring back at me.

I wonder if it is a weakness. I feel all these thoughts filling up my head, constantly multiplying until they spill. The overload only worsens the tightness in my chest.  This is all because in this time and age I can't tell you what I dearly want to say;

I want you.

Do you remember the day we made a promise to each other?

I can remember the weather perfectly. It was cold, and I could hear the soft patter of rain outside your window.
I remember the way your fingers softly pressed the piano's keys, and the way the melody filled the room.

You said we would run away eventually. We wouldn't stay ****** into the same vortex. You said we would eventually find somewhere else to call home, somewhere that word finally made sense.

Whether separated or not, we would seek each other out. We would meet at the usual destination; that cozy bar in an old hotel. The large french windows would overlook a beautiful garden, filled with pastel colored flowers, lush greens and the smell of fresh earth as it rained. Shadows would move freely, with only the soft light sifting through the curtains illuminating the black wood of the bar counter top. Nestled in a corner would be a black grande piano, and a man playing a sorrowful tune.

We would be perched atop slightly unstable stools, sipping on our scotch. We would spend the afternoon reminiscing on the mistakes, tribulations, success and memories we shared.

The silence would grow on us, cloaking us in a puzzling comfort. We would stare out the window and breathe out a sigh of relief.

All of it a distant dream and a broken promise, as I get ready to leave you behind.
I'll still have that dream, when I sleep.

Unfortunately it is a promise no more.