I’d happily sit just watching him move. How his fingers touch his face to brush his hair from his eyes. Still all in my imagination, but so deeply embedded now.
I’d move mountains just to touch him. No shifting sands could stop this momentum he’s created. I’d turn it into hourglasses before time ran out. Just to start this again.
No food can stop this hunger, this ache. It doesn’t stem from that place. It’s fuelled by the tempest. Sustained by a longing full of lust and desire.
This table will be laid without cutlery or plates. It will be a banquet for the senses for the soul. Every jagged corner erased, every curve defined and rediscovered.