sext: my hands are on your hips, my hands are around your neck, my hands can’t find you anymore. where are you where are you?

sext: your eyes are vast as plains and deep as canyons, and i can’t look into them anymore without falling.

sext: your faded white car is in my driveway and we are tangled inside of it, your breath hot on my collarbone. you feel like high school, but we both know we’re too old for this.

sext*: if i were an artist, i’d paint my love across your shoulder blades. i’d make a canvas of your chest. i would seep into every crevice of your sculptured frame and you’d never leave me.