Dusk may come, but we are young.

With every soft and supple smile, you hold me. I hope you hold me. You plant a sickness in my abdomen. Every muscle in my body succumbs to the fever of your eyes. My pores open and sweat with the sight of your affectionate glance. An overwhelming thud in my chest will surely betray my brave and stolid face. If it were not for the pounding willingness pulsing through my body, I might think of your intentions. The touch of your fingers on my back are unquestionable. Swiftly, freely I give you my pride, gift you with my shame. Hot. HOT is the air, and I can not grasp it. I am not brave. I am not happy. I am not sad. I am not certain. You smile. A fervent feeling of serendipity delights and calms me. Nothing inside of me doubts you, or the fact that you will be with me as long as I need you. I need you.