You said you like my skin. Milky white and luminescent behind the crimson silk. Touch it then, I whisper. Trace it with your finger but be gentle, and soft. My skin is so thin it will break at the slightest pressure, and the red would come out of me, and I will die. Trust me, darling, I'll die.
And I said, tell me more. What else do you love about me? I'm hungry and greedy and I want so much more out of you. So spill.
So you said: I love how you get all these crazy stories in your head and demand that I listen to all of them. I love the muscle on your thigh that occasionally twitches when you sleep.I love the warmth of your body, and I drink it every night, and it burns as it goes down my throat. Like brandy. I love your sing-song voice, lilting and fluctuating with every syllable of your words. I love our little arguments and how they always end with you in my arms. I love how you carry your pillow around and bury your head in it and sniff it and tell me that it smells like me. Or I smell like it. I love your insanity and paranoia and obsessiveness and do-you-really-want-me-to-continue-because-it-can-really-take-the-whole-night.
Well then, I replied, you can write it all down and draw little random hearts on the paper, or you can shut up and kiss me.