la petite mort.

he wants you.

wants you in some primal, wild way animals want each other. untamed and full of teeth. he wants you, in some chaste, victorian way. a glimpse of your ankle just kills him. he needs you, so he dipped his hands in holy water just to touch you. he's a man. an misunderstood alienated specie. even he cannot understand himself.

belly button kisses. cranberries. mulberry leather. you're his and he is yours. he just wanna look good for you. good for you. let him show you how proud he is to be yours. you, his marquise diamond. leave that dress a mess on the floor and syncopate his skin to how your heart is beating, how you're breathing, makes him never wanna leave.

but loving you felt like leaving a book out in the wind. the pages turned too fast for him to read. leaving him no enough time. to adore you. to explore you. to trace your lines with his fingertips and reread his favorite parts. to live the story he knew we were meant to be.

and before he knew it. the book was closed. the story was over. his head laid on your lap. his hands on your hips. not caring about looking pathetic. “we'll figure this out.. we'll resolve it, ma vie..” he whispered, "just... don't leave me...”