Thought Catalog

I Can’t Stop Dreaming About Your Lips On Mine

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I have this theory that my subconscious has grown quite fond of you. You’re in my dreams again; it must be the fifth time in seven days. In this one I’ve got my lips painted red like Lolita and you’ve got your eyes fixated on them. My mind is there, my mind is somewhere else, my mind is on your hands around my neck, and you’re looking at me like you know what I’m thinking, and you’re smiling like saying we’ll get there, but we’re not there yet.

It’s like you’ve pulled the curtains and can gaze out into all the secret gardens you’ve planted in my mind. It’s like you’re walking through all their labyrinths, admiring each plant and stopping by each rose bush. And you’re reaching out and caressing the petals, and you’re picking the flower, and the thorn is your favorite part to run your fingers through.

My lips part ever so slightly to the thought, and you’re painting galaxies in my eyes by telling me this lipstick is my color. And I know what you’re thinking, but you say it anyway, I’d love to paint you in the same shades of red.

It’s the idea. It’s your voice. I tremble. I’m driftwood in a shuddering ocean and your eyes are the thunder striking down too near to these waves. I’ve been starving. I’ve got this dirty, yet oh, so, holy hunger. And the dragon lighting fires in my veins is telling me you’ll feed me with all that I crave and do not yet know.

We don’t speak. Thumbs to jaws. Mouth to mouth. Heartbeat to heartbeat. In sync. There isn’t a sound in the room except the words to songs I don’t know reverberating through my core. You’re teaching me the lyrics, you’re showing me new music, and I’m getting lost in this dance for two.

There isn’t a sound except this. There’s nothing except you and I that exist. We’ve lost all sense of space and time. The only language we know is the half poetry and half prayers we’re both moaning into each other’s necks, the gasps we make when we come up for air.

I don’t know what this is. But it’s all warm and it’s all worship and it’s all heat. And I’m waking up again all sweat and all quivering.

I don’t know what this means.

But I’m hoping I’ll find out when I finally taste the salt on your skin. TC mark

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