He was on his bed, in a world so far from my reach, I was sitting in front of him, depicting every piece of his body that was revealed to me. And as I filled my cup of desire with whatever my burning eyes were able to see, I couldn't but believe that it won't appease my thirst, so I contemplated him more meticulously, wishing for some movement that will reveal more of his golden skin.
His hair was messy, his face calm, his body steady, and his soul free. His absence contrasted with the chaos inside of me. I wanted to touch him, to wake him, to tell him how I feel, and to have his eyes confessing my presence. But I didn't, I couldn't. Maybe because I liked him better when he was all mine, when he couldn't think of my feelings or judge them. I liked him lying on his bed with the sun rays caressing him. Looking vulnerable and passive as my thoughts played around him, and my emotions devoured him. But I wished I could've done otherwise.
The more I looked at him, the more I felt my feeling trembling between two ends; the rage that was growing stronger because of my fear that stand still between me and him, ,and the calmness that I believed our touch will produce.
I could've got closer, made two steps to reach him, and had him trapped in my world that I doubt he could've resisted. How many times did I make the promise to never fail my desires again, to do whatever it takes to make me happy, to do whatever I want without foreseeing my thoughts on the future? How sweet will his lips taste, how exciting the look of surprise in his eyes will make me feel, how great will it be to have this little secret uniting us.
So I stepped, drove my lips to his, pressed them against each other, and as soon as he opened his eyes, I asked him to shut up, I ventured wildly inside his mouth, felt his heat, touched his chest, and arms, the more I could have the more I imagined what I was still missing, and I hated this idea. So I jumped on the bed. As his back posed against the wall, I heard him shiver at the contact of the cold surface. His legs were extended on the bed, so I posed over them, and pressed my chest against his. At that moment, he'd overcame his surprise, and was freer to act. His soft palms were fumbling my back, holding on to any curvature. Our breathes were mixed, our lips lost in the ambiguity of each other's. We belonged to one another.
Then he woke up, and found me lost in the thought of having him all for me. I bet he got a glimpse of what was going inside of my head, either thanks to my red cheeks, or my vagabond sight. He said good morning, I smiled, jumped off the bed, and asked if he wanted some coffee, escaping the sight of him, so I don't pronounce any irrelevant sentences. Some silence to retake all the breathes I consumed imagining this scene, some silence to guide the mind.