Countdown.

I sink my teeth into your throat
creating half moons there
a tangible, textured reminder
if only for a second.
You're lying in forgotten fluorescent,
head tilted,
dust particles hovering over bare, freckled skin
I almost run my fingers over the warmth
because it is mine and
I created it.
I revel in your groans
delighted that my mouth can cause
such a symphony to spill from yours.
You talk a big game, gruff vowels and echoing consonants
but I remember what it's like
when I have you hanging onto the edge of those words.
In those moments when no sounds are coming
because you are.
Your hardness buried deep in
my soft,
we move as though instructed by some
primitive dance
choreographed by instinct alone.
My mouth is dry at the thought of you buried in my wet-
mere weeks remain until
we are soul deep in each other again.