I take on new lovers just to have new topics to write about.

I like the colour of her skin, the cut of her hair, I like the uncomfortable way she has of watching me, like she doesn’t like to catch herself looking but likes to look anyway. I like the push and pull of attraction and denial and confusion. 

I just want to bite her lip a little. Get enough of a taste to feel like I’d sampled something of what it was. 

I like her ink, her writing, the glyphs under her skin. I like the potential for… at best, heart-felt intrigue, at worst, simple masturbation. We coax sexual sentiments out of each other, or at least we clearly we want to. (Being an adult seems so stupid sometimes, like tall children with better vocabularies and no restraints.) I like what she might look like, what she might be like, have been like, or what she just wants to be like, with me.

I just want to get up close, and see how she breathes. 

I’ve got miles of self-improvement to go however, before I might sleep. 
And hell, it seems like I just woke up.