Tommy Witoshynsky//20//South Florida//@itsalwaysmybirthday
An open window lets in the echoes of a lively city street below, but upon my ears the sounds hardly register. As the early morning sunlight tiptoes about the tiny room, I need not strain to hear the soles of your bare feet padding across the tile floor.
You are here, and there is nothing else.
There's a subtle calculatedness to your blasé demeanor while you pace about my apartment; hard to trace but left to find intentionally. Every stride, every glance, each half smile you cast my direction; no move you make is of any function but to hold my attention, but we both feign that we've never played this game before.
See, we both know this performance is all premeditated. We've rehearsed this more times than either our minds can remember, but you've left room for improvisation, as any true artist would.
Mercifully you ease your way back into bed, and the hunger I've endured has all at once engulfed me. Amidst this mess of arms and lips and legs and tongues, I find myself at home. All too familiar, but no less enticing.
By some miracle I find the air to tell you, good God darling, I've been starving. But I am yours, and you will maintain that I am fed.
Now and always.