Fever

Your lust for her an allergy itch. She walks in the room, your throat pricks and catches, you stretch your chin to lose it, rake fingers over flesh to still the desire crawling through your head.

It finds your pain centre, latches on.

Smelling her. Makes it worse. Seeing her. Makes it worse. And don’t you ever let her touch you: you won't get loose till the constellations of red skin swirl, each pressure point a galaxy.