Hunger

Avoid the feeling like a puddle. Repressiveness;

what the British does best. Did I tell you that I might lay claim to

foreign lands or roots? That I might have ancestors that made Turkish boots?

Hover your foot over the surface, mimic me in silence

like the perfect mime. Stare me down like a cobra and unleash

some more longing. Starve me of your touch

Till I’m begging like the whore I want to be.

Try and dare to find out it’s true depths as it shimmers so delightfully

Drawing us in like the colourful transparency of a bubble

My fingers dance, stretching across this tiny wasteland of restraint

Yours twitch but don’t reach. Frustration.

The illusive space seems just as fragile as porcelain. I don’t want to break this

spell that I’ve cast over you lest you see all my imperfections too soon.

One day we’ll be brave enough to dip our toes into the unknown

And it’ll either be as shallow as a whale stuck in the harbour

Or. We’ll just keep falling further and further in love

and never reach the bottom. I need you

to say it back. Touch. Kiss.

Love.

Little Ginge x

 

 

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