I’m sor­ry, but I can’t go anoth­er day with­out telling you how much I want to feel your face beneath my fin­gers, how much I want to drag their trem­bling tips across your gen­tle skin. My mind swells with almost inclement desire, that I may con­sume your body or breathe in your being with every sigh you let out.

I want to run my fin­gers across the play­ful curve of your brow, the arch­ing base of your nose, the edges of your sup­ple lips. I want to feel your skin give beneath mine as it resists from the sul­tri­ness of your com­plex­ion. I want to explore every diminu­tive line in your face and exam­ine every fea­ture of your coun­te­nance. I want to graze the flour­ish of your lash­es and kiss the cor­ners of your exquis­ite, point­ed mouth.

Even now my mind strug­gles with the words, the inef­fa­ble nature of my over­whelm­ing appetite.

That you may be mine.

And no one else’s.