this is inappropriate for any eyes but yours.
i feel like i'm always looking at photographs. the ones i have thrown in boxes; the ones playing out before me-- scene, snap, scene, snap, scene, snap; the ones that i find, borrow, imprint with my own story; the ones on the insides of my eyes.
and when i see the perfect bare curve of hips, a brushing of lips, the blushing of bellies and the loosening of fists into hands reaching, pulling, resting, then all i want is you next to me, both of us naked and quivering but sure and warm and comforted. i want you to trace your fingers all down my side and i want to capture those lines around your eyes when you smile. i want to wake up holding your hand, again. and again and again.