LUST is lying down on a musty mattress, looking up at the ceiling fan that continues to spin circles until the pattern is ingrained into your mind and you feel the cold of the air conditioner drift down and chill your soul into a block of ice and you yearn, you crave, for someone to come and warm you back up again because you miss the burning hot kisses making trails down the arches of your collarbones and the everlasting feel of hands rubbing their nimble, callused fingers down your entire body, sloping into your neck and your spine and each finger starting to play a soothing melody on the piano keys of your ribs and you miss how lips, wondrous creatures, traced and counted each part of your body, your skin, deeper still into your heart and your soul until the number was lost and had to be recounted again, god, you miss being truly loved and the thought is like the blast of cold air hitting you now and you remember that you can’t have the desires you pleasure and you’ll be left staring at the cracked plaster ceiling, aching for the warmth of last night to return but the space next to you is but a painful reminder of how lust creates a lonely void and makes your skin turn so, so cold until you feel nothing but the wish of being held close.