At My Most Fievel Mousekewitz

Your kiss is so good I’m taken aback whenever it crosses my mind.
I must immediately reminisce.
Everything stops when I think about it and if I am acting at the time it’s merely muscle memory.
I think of just standing on my tippy toes, right underneath your nose, with your fucking hair falling into my face, nobody touching nobody, your flawless skin in the glow of night, NF playing in the background, you high, and slightly moaning, I’m dumb high, and you overcome me, the lights are low, your dick is hard, we’re at my door, its cold outside, you have to go because I said so and yet your body heat is so fucking warm, your lips hovering over mine, ugh, Jesus.

Your kiss is so good that I want to direct a film about it, a documentary of how it fucked me.
I must immediately hit mental replay.
Nothing moves when I’m with you, not time, not light, not the phases of the moon, it’s emotion in its purest form. Just caressing my lips over yours feels like the ocean and oblivion and forbidden fruits and I want nobody to know but everyone watching, your hands ready to grip, my heart slips, the wind takes it, TV flickers, you’re terrible and I’m into it, still, I’m awful yet you acquiesce, and after all of this time between now and the last time I got to throw my life away into another kiss from you seems like forever and just a moment ago. My god.

 

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