When You Touch Me
One-shot
I see. Your hand slowly pulls away from my cheek. I know your dirty fingers have left an imprint – four lines from the lead of your pencils. You always draw and then you touch me. Sometimes your thumb traces over my nose and leaves behind a black spot. I only wipe it away quickly before it itches. This won’t stop until I give up and my skin stay black for your amusement.
I hear. Your words always tell me how much I mean to you. You always tell me – just to make sure that I know. You never want me to forget, and I won’t. I love you. Sometimes your voice is a whisper; sometimes a whimper. You never fail to tell me. Every day you make sure to utter those same words to me. It’s something I’ve come to depend on – to count on.
I smell. Your smell is always the same distinct mix between cigarettes, paper and paint. The sharp smell of paint always burns my nostrils when I first sense it. The dry smell of paper always scratches my throat. The cigarettes never bother me. I smoke too, and I love the fact that we share that same smell. We smoke each our brand, but the smoke always melts together in the air.
I taste. Your skin always tastes the same. Your cum always has that same undertone. Everything seems to have that aftertaste of metal. No matter how many cigarettes I smoke, I can still taste it. No matter how many times I swallow down your cum, I can still taste it. No matter how many times I sniff your paints and papers or the lighter fluid from my lighter, I can still taste metal on my tongue.
I feel. Your body moves away from me and you leave me alone. I’m always afraid of being alone. When I’m alone, I feel nothing. I’m numb; helpless; dead. Without you my world disappears. Yet, when you’re with me, I feel too much. I feel fear, pain, hopeless, worthless, hollow, tired, and broken. But worst of all, when I’m with you, I feel love. You might not love me, but I love you.
I hear. Your words always tell me how much I mean to you. You always tell me – just to make sure that I know. You never want me to forget, and I won’t. I love you. Sometimes your voice is a whisper; sometimes a whimper. You never fail to tell me. Every day you make sure to utter those same words to me. It’s something I’ve come to depend on – to count on.
I smell. Your smell is always the same distinct mix between cigarettes, paper and paint. The sharp smell of paint always burns my nostrils when I first sense it. The dry smell of paper always scratches my throat. The cigarettes never bother me. I smoke too, and I love the fact that we share that same smell. We smoke each our brand, but the smoke always melts together in the air.
I taste. Your skin always tastes the same. Your cum always has that same undertone. Everything seems to have that aftertaste of metal. No matter how many cigarettes I smoke, I can still taste it. No matter how many times I swallow down your cum, I can still taste it. No matter how many times I sniff your paints and papers or the lighter fluid from my lighter, I can still taste metal on my tongue.
I feel. Your body moves away from me and you leave me alone. I’m always afraid of being alone. When I’m alone, I feel nothing. I’m numb; helpless; dead. Without you my world disappears. Yet, when you’re with me, I feel too much. I feel fear, pain, hopeless, worthless, hollow, tired, and broken. But worst of all, when I’m with you, I feel love. You might not love me, but I love you.
♠ ♠ ♠
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