I know but Never Certain
And I know but never certain, that I am deeply moved by his insincerity, drowned with his overwhelmingly cunning gazes that leave me shaking, enticed by touches that were like swirls of lost cities, of lost souls, finding their caresses that quench my body, as they make it drool to a greater degree.
And I know but never certain, that I am crushed from width to width by the darkness of his sipping kisses, allured by my touch to his nape and his to my waist as we let ourselves get drunk with our intoxicating tastes, engulfing, mouth to mouth, smacking lips, occasional bumping of teeth, or tongue; fluid rushing with every breath, closed eyes, heavy sighs.
And I know but never certain, that I am a fan of his weakness: he’s but an exemplar of selfish subtle remarks that are way too predictable. I wouldn’t remember falling in love with someone to his caliber until we touch and hold and yearn for more that could never be, because I know him and these feelings, but I would never be certain.
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