24

As the honeyed folds present in my palm meets yours, loosely tracing against the sculpted patterns in your skin, I feel something pull from the trench of my stomach, looping in unison with our fingers that run over hugged knuckles.

What is this feeling, I ask myself?

What dare try and steal from the time I share with you, trapped within my flushed ribcage?

I watch the green of your eyes tilt to align with mine, tinted in a shade only I can see as raw colors mix. Reserved for me is this gaze, mine is the bat of overlapping lashes perched above the slick beads resting before me. Slick with care, slick with a question preparing to file out of his parted mouth.

I take this chance to study his features as if I were a wise astrologist, stars flowering across the rich soil in my eyes. Blonde waves like molten gold caress the curves of his smile, framing skin akin to that of gods, heroes, warriors we’d read about in stories fed to us listening children with open mouths, open ears. It was only fitting.