let's get vulnerable about a boy three days before i age out of YWP

I want you to kiss me until my lips bruise and pucker and purple and all I can taste is the inside of your mouth. I’m not sure if the girls you’ve been with before touched your waist like I do but I want you to know that it is such a beautiful part of you and I wish I had more time to tell you that. Your skin is fine, believe me—I’d lick the tears off of your cheeks if you let me. And this all sounds crazy, and I know it’s far too fast, but you are lovely and good, and I have to make a considerable effort most days not to think of you, lest I lose my mind. I need to focus on other, more sensible things. Unlike you, and your pretty eyes and long-fingered hands and the way your chest moves beneath my head. There will be a time when I cannot see you in person and we have lived it recently but the one day I am allowed for the next few months is the kind of aphrodisiac that I’m sure Dionysus gorged himself on. I hope you’ve been counting down days the same way I have—all I’ve been able to think of for the past hour is the sloping skin that connects your shoulders to your collarbone. You asked me a few weeks ago what music I enjoyed listening to and up until that point I would have said “Hip-Hop, Pop, some Jazz and R&B,” but now my answer is just “your voice. Yeah, Yours.” Capital Y, because I am drowning in you and cannot touch you. I see a smile that looks like yours and my palms ache. You send me silly pictures and funny little messages, and I feast on all of them, lick my lips clean, and feel the chasm that contains my hunger for you tremble and deepen. You think in a way I don’t really understand—men are here, women there, your grasp of things unyielding—but I have made headway in changing your mind, pressing my thumbs into your weak spots and making jokes to ease the tension when you wince. You are incredible and difficult and so kind it astounds me, and losing the knowledge of your body so close is going to pull threads in my brain apart, but waiting for more time is worth it. I hope you read the book I bought you and I hope it makes you cry on the plane. I am sadistic, sometimes, but your pain will only match mine, and your fingertips on my penciling will be another way for me to feel you when you are away. There are words I cannot say, yet, but they are in there. On the pages, explicitly, written by someone else and underlined by me, but also in the gesture itself. We both know what they are. I hope, just as I know, that you think them, too. 

"I have little left in myself -- I must have you. The world may laugh --may call me absurd, selfish --but it does not signify. My very soul demands you; it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame." --Jane Eyre.