I want to kiss you.

I want to kiss you. I want my shaky hands to grip your flushed cheeks, to feel your button nose against mine, and to run my hands through your hair like beach sand. To see your wild eyes peer into mine, because in you I feel seen. In your eyes I'm no longer a sector of a former self, but something naked and new.

To feel you is to be hot. To feel the warmth of your breath on the nape of my neck, whispering my name. Feeling your hands claw into my back, and the silk of your moonlit skin pressed against mine. To wake every day mesmerized as a pair of broken, chuckling bodies. Kindling for the next inferno.

To see you is to be afraid. To be seen by you is to feel so helpless and raw, bewildered by wild wanderlust. To see you is to be caught in the path of a preposterous radiance, spoken only in the oldest of sonnets. A being of the primordial garden itself, for only Eden could offer explanation to such a profound ache.

To kiss you is to be a unworthy soul set free.