“He's a hot bath, a short breath, five days of summer pressed into five fingers writing stories on my body.”

“One word, two lips, three four five fingers form a fist.One corner, two parents, three four five reasons to hide.One child, two eyes, three four seventeen years of fear.A broken broomstick, a pair of wile faces, angry whispers, locks on my door.”

“He pulls me close, too close. I’m frozen in five hundred layers of fear. Stunned in grief, in disbelief.”

“And he leans in, so carefully. Breathing and not breathing and hearts beating between us and he's so close, he's so close and I can't feel my legs anymore. I can't feel my fingers or the cold or the emptiness of this room because all I feel is him, everywhere, filling everything and he whispers"Please."He says, "Please don't shoot me for this.”

“His body presses closer and I realize I'm paying attention to nothing but the dandelions blowing wishes in my lungs.”

“I want so many things,” he whispers. “I want your mind. Your strength. I want to be worth your time.” His fingers graze the hem of my top and he says “I want this up.” He tugs on the waist of my pants and says “I want these down.” He touches the tips of his fingers to the sides of my body and says, “I want to feel your skin on fire. I want to feel your heart racing next to mine and I want to know it’s racing because of me, because you want me. Because you never,” he says, he breathes, “never want me to stop. I want every second. Every inch of you. I want all of it.”

“He takes my hand. Intertwines our fingers. Offers me a smile that manages to kiss my heart.”