Remind thyself that he whom thou lovest is mortal that what
thou lovest is not thine own; it is given thee for the present, not
irrevocably nor for ever, but even as a fig or a bunch of grapes at
the appointed season of the year

She leans over the desk to write and even though I feel bad for doing it, I watch her body as she does. Her shirt lifts just a little as she’s bending over and whether she’s aware of it or not, her lower back is exposed. I’ve spent the last eight years ignoring this girl, but one small view of her back and it’s putting my body into overdrive.

I’ve never wanted to kiss someone there so much in my life.

I think I feel it
The nimble, fleeting emotion
That novels and authors desperately
Try to convey in ink and heart blood
Whose shadow festers in the loins
Of teenagers and their insatiability
The hidden thing none of us can see
Yet we all disagree what it looks like
If only it were love… simple, infinite love
But this was more, this was bloodshot madness.

1 2 3 4 555