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.