Restless
Maybe she's a total freak, and maybe it's just time making its effects on her. She understands. Her eyes fall on his lips, once again, and she's powerless against the fantasies that assault her mind.
Her fingers on his lips.
Her lips on his.
His lips on her, and more;
She laughs bitterly to herself at how powerless she is against her own brain. Fighting back hurts, so she gives in to the obsessionnal thoughts.
-
She's so weak. Her mind mercilessly tortures her all day long, every week worse than the previous, when he's as peaceful and clueless as one could possibly be.
That is not fair.
A sweat drop runs along his jaw to his neck; it fuses with other sweat drops over his throat, then heads for the skin under his t-shirt. She averts her eyes, cheeks flushed in shame, but it's been a while now that seeing is unnecessary. She followed those lines a hundred times. Base of his neck, down to his torso to the belly button, to the hips caught in the rim of his tracking pants.
She tries to be firm and order for the torture to end there, but it doesn't.
-
Weakness leads to misery. Desperately wanting something that you can't have. Unfulfillable desires. Dreams that wouldn't come true, and that she wouldn't dare seizing, even if they were handed to her.
She wakes up in the dead of the night from yet another unconfessable fantasy, sweaty and confused, ashamed yet feverish, whispering his name to the pillows, restless. She reaches across the sheets, wondering if he'll appear under her hand, just for the night. She secretly wishes he was a pervert enough to sneak into her room and make her his.
He happens not to be.