I want to trace the lines of your neck with my tongue. Let my taste buds stumble across the sharp tang of your perfume. I want your pulse, stuttering beneath my fingertips. To graze the skin stretching over your collarbones with my teeth. I want to mark you. I want those marks to last a lifetime with no hint of a scar. I don’t want you as a possession, I don’t want to take you as a sign of ownership. I want us quick and fumbling in the dark, a spark of closeness we can both feel. I want to mark you as a sign of my love. ******* bruises, nibbling softly, calling for the redness you blush to stay a while. I never cared much for the perfect ****, deep seated passion that blazes like a fire. I care for each gasp you’d make, the crisp reality of the imperfections upon the skin that I travel with my own. I care for accidentally biting too hard, whispering sorry into your ear, and soothing the indents my teeth made with cool breath. I care for the shaky laughs and trying new things and not being afraid of not liking something. I care for you under me, or me under you. I care for loving everything we do.