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A fire and a candle in the dark
Blankets rough against the skin of his knees, the heels of his hands, feather pillows in cool cream cotton, musty against his mouth.
Silence with only flames and heartbeats to live in it. Firm hands, large and dry and familiar, bruising his hip, his collar bone, his shoulder, manicured nails cutting crescents in his confusion.
Blood taste on his tongue, and bite marks in his skin, and if only he could have his lungs back connected to his brain, his lips, his central nervous system, he'd scream with the joy of it.
Blankets rough against the skin of his knees, the heels of his hands, feather pillows in cool cream cotton, musty against his mouth.
Silence with only flames and heartbeats to live in it. Firm hands, large and dry and familiar, bruising his hip, his collar bone, his shoulder, manicured nails cutting crescents in his confusion.
Blood taste on his tongue, and bite marks in his skin, and if only he could have his lungs back connected to his brain, his lips, his central nervous system, he'd scream with the joy of it.
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Yummy.
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