Young Writers Society

journal,

the curve of his hips, the little dip in his spine right before you reach his bum, little dimples on either side framing it. how his small hands press against my chest when he pushes me onto the bed, and it feels as if they get stuck there, because when his hands go to fumble with my jeans, i still feel the trail of fire that his fingerprints leave on my skin.

how his kisses leave my skin burning, searing open with every second his lips linger on my chest, stomach, arms, thighs. how he can make me feel like i've been dipped in a bout of acid and seared until i'm nothing more than ashes on the ground when he touches me, his small hands ripping open my body with little flicks of his wrist.

and i wonder why i need him so much, why my heart aches for the air he breathes into my lungs with every drag of his fingers down my chest, i wonder why the fire in my heart is nothing more than a few embers of arousal, spiritual or physical may it be, i wonder why those little flecks of a forgotten fire remain unlit until i watch him walk into the room, i watch him grab my hair and tug it gently, but hard enough to be the match that lights the ashes, i watch him as he pushes me down, his lips trailing fire down my body as the fire in my chest spreads to his own, small hands roaming for the water he doesn't really need to put it out.

and i wonder why i gasp for air when he's not near me, when he's not in the same room as me, when his hands aren't burning holes through my chest, why my lungs feel like they've shriveled up except i know, i know why i can't breathe when he isn't here and it's not because his lips breathe the air i need into my chest, it's because he is the air i need.

his small hands that claw through my chest and tear me limb from limb, the curve of his hips that make me want to drown us both in something so painful it can only describe my love for him, his little fingers that scratch and claw at my back, engraving his love into my skin is the air i need. he doesn't breathe the air into me, he is the air i breathe and i find myself choking on the atmosphere when we're not in the same room, when the oxygen that wraps around my lungs and lulls me to sleep is suddenly gone along with his small body.

and he wonders why i ask myself if it's real or not, because it sure as hell seems like a fantasy when he presses his bare chest against mine and i see angel wings poking out from behind his back. and one day i fear that his small hands, pressing into the spot where my back arches the highest, his fingers, trailing lines of fire down my chest and onto my stomach, his mouth, telling me that the aching burn on my lips is a praise of his love, his way of igniting my skin in flames will all be gone.

that my air will slam the door he pressed me up against as it runs out of whatever mind lock it's been stuck in, that the hands and fingers and lips and dimples on his back will take the fire they've lit across my body with them, ripping my skin off piece by piece until i'm left with nothing but a sullen memory of when they used to be glued to the clothes thrown in the corner of the room, when they used to belong to the embers in my chest.

his lips that declare the praise my lungs strain to breathe in, his fingers that set the fire in my body that make it so i can't inhale the love i so ache for, his eyes that look into mine and speak the words his mouth, his hands, the fire in his chest can't, whispering through clenched teeth and blue rings around the dark pupils that my body is a temple and that he wants the fire in my chest to burn forever and ever, until i'm locked in a coffin and i can somehow escape because of the ignited embers from the grave beside me.

his eyes telling me that it's him, that it's only him that can blow flames from his mouth deep into my soul, that it's only him who can push me down onto the bed and have me sink so far that i drop down from the sky and come back again, only him who can lift my legs over my shoulders and light the fire in other places than my chest, the burn ripping through my body and only him that can hold me once he's done, once the flames turned to ashes and his chest is pressed tightly against my back that is now littered with scratches that mark his name.

it's only him that i want, only him that i need, only his hands and his fingers and his chest and his lips and his eyes and his air and his fire and his fuel and just him. he's the only one that can make me feel like the fire ripping through my body is a reminder that he loves me and not an act of hate for loving him back.

he makes me need him ways i just can't understand, makes me feel like i'm gasping for the water to quench the building flames in my body and suddenly i'm filled with air and hands and fingers and lips and eyes and i remember. i remember why i need him and his small fingers that are more like matches than anything else and i remember why his chest pressing against mine lights my soul into a forrest fire and why i succumb so easily to anything he wants me to do, and why my yes yes whatever you want is tumbling out before the can we try- can even spill from his lips.

he gives me my appetite before i can even tell him that i'm hungry and he shoves the food into my mouth before i can tell him no, no i want your skin and your hands and your eyes and your lips, not this because my appetite ranges from the top of his body to the bottom, not from the refridgerator to the pantry.

the curve of his hips and how it drives me absolutely wild with the passion and lust that the dimples on his back feed me, how when he's standing he looks like a flick of a flame, his sides digging in at his stomach and then puffing out right above his groin, and his body looks like an hourglass and i'm sitting here wondering when the sand will fall to his feet. when the dimples on his back will close up and his curvy figure will stand straight, when his small hands will stop holding mine and his blue eyes will stop whispering things to me as they turn grey, his head falling forward on my chest as i try to catch him, try to wake him up by running my large hands over his body but i can't seem to ignite the flames that he sends running over my body so easily.

but for now, i'll admire his hourglass figure and be happy that the sand is resting happily at the top of his head, knowing that the fire in his chest will burn for much longer. i'll run my hands over his hips, my body pressing into his as i slit my fingers into the dips in his spine, our eyes speaking to each other because our mouths are too busy lighting fires within each other.

our hands will entangle and those fingers that trace my skin, leaving burning trails of fire and love and pain will wrap around my own and we'll create the electricity that runs through the world, keeping every house and apartment and office lit and the second we part, the second i'm suddenly gasping for air again, the second the fire in my chest is nothing more than a few embers, the second my eyes are screaming out his name but his give no response, is the second that all of the light in the world will suddenly

vanish.

-how it feels to be loved and to be in love.