There is an incorrectness in the way I look at you. Inappropriate, yes, that's the better word. Perhaps it's because I do not hide the fact that I would like to bite your lower lip and let it bleed into my mouth, drip down my throat.
It is relentless, this wanting. But half of it is your fault because you're there and you leave me no other choice but to watch. To keep watching until I lock your gaze with mine, those pupils pinpricks in the bright afternoon sun. I love it when I can see the real color of your eyes. Gray, tinged with questions.
Tomorrow, I will reach out to you, grab you by the neck, my two palms smearing the sweat on your skin onto the collar of your shirt as I pull you down with me. You will not say no. I will not let you.
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