He Tasted Like All The Poetry I’ve Ever Written

The desire behind wanting him and the passion behind having him are things that remain solemnly in my memory. Meeting him gave the word passion a meaning I never knew of before. In a combination of lust and romance, we became one; a full mass of beautiful destruction that could set a whole town on fire.

Me, a good girl gone bad, a white canvas that begged for him to paint me in shades only he knew.

Him, a man who knew how to paint in the shades that looked better on me.

Initially, as he discovered that I was a writer he looked at my work and asked for me to show him. So I touched his hand, grabbed the tip of his fingertips and placed them on my body. His eyes shined in amusement, and a thrill of goosebumps rose from the deepest parts of me. There and then, he knew I craved attention in order to be inspired. So, he split me open and forced me to create art. I always asked him to enlighten me; he would run his fingers through my hair and speak softly. I could almost swear that the sun was not the only thing this man would bring to his knees.

His fingers always dripped of honey because the sweetness between my legs made his mouth water constantly. However, what he admired the most was the look of my fingers dancing inside the heart of my femininity.

Neck kisses, naked kisses that urged my legs to spread, a voice that undressed me, and a sour mouth that wanted to be fed sugar are things only he provoked.

He tasted like all the poetry I’ve ever written, sweet and truthful. Seductive, dangerous, addictive, mine. The desire for my lover will never die, it is written in the words of his favorite girl.