la petite mort.

he wants you.

wants you in some primal, wild way animals want each other. untamed and full of teeth. he needs you, in some chaste manner. a glimpse of you crucified him. repentance within your touch. sin at the dip of his finger in your blessed water.

he's a man. a misunderstood specie. even he cannot understand the heart resting perniciously within its cage. seen and judged, by no one but himself, with aversion to the enormity of his desire, how rumpled his wings had become spread out for you. he avoid his gaze in the mirror, have no interest in learning what it feels like to meet those eyes.

head rest. curls splayed on your stomach. fingers curled on the silk you wore, creasing lines on your skin underneath, his nails denting moons on your constellation. yearning to be held like a drowning man. droopy sore, glassy eyes staring off nothing. “choose me...” he uttered to a feathery whisper, a plea, a prayer, “please...”