Wishful Thinking

Reminded of forgotten desires. 

Dark, with television to lighten the

rich,

brown,

mahogany,

that is my skin. 

So soft.

Addicted to touch.

My hips seared by your fingertips. 

Shadows danced on the walls as you gave the phantom kisses that reside on my thighs. 

The music background noise to your name, as if it was the only word my swollen lips allowed.

Now,

my body,

sculpted better than the pictures that live in your head. 

You can not touch,

but curiosity gets the best of me. 

Do I still shake at your command? 

Do the swell of my breasts still fit in the palm of your hands?

Does my body still belong to you? 

-AB

Song of the night – Nasty by Ariana Grande