I will deny this ever happened.
Moving past this, I cannot get out of what I got into with you. These affections, foreign or more likely forgotten. Unknown. They are problematic. Modifications incurred by accelerated hearts. Aware of our appetite, we collide.
Our bodies entangled in this intricate web, this bed. Like wildfire, immersed in each others delicate curves. The rhythmic motion of my hands against your hips persuaded by taste and touch. A composition of impulses. Uninhibited. Repression yielding to sensation. For pleasure and pain are desires that cannot be checked.
We come together and fall apart, merely to fulfill an innate human need. Laying in each others arms, complacent, we realize this ecstasy is ephemeral. Leaving the safety of these linens will only give way to isolation from one another. Our viscera dictates we are two very prideful people.
So we bury this. It’s what I like best.
To move away. And refuse.
What is between you and I.
These affections. Fictions.
Fashioned arbitrarily at will.