You say, "move on," but I'm not really moving forward.
You say, "move on," but what is there to look towards,
When I've left you behind?

Touch Me

I feel my sanity slipping away. You, holding down my body as we watch my thoughts play across the ceiling like a bad ballet. My skin is hot against your own, your hand caressing my thigh, the small of my back. I feel the scratchy brown carpet through the thin white sheet we laid down like a picnic blanket on the beach. I feel exotic in my lacy black bra and panties, with you on top of me in your jeans, and my thoughts projected on the ceiling. "I'm melting," I say as my skin starts to feel as scratchy as the carpet beneath us. "I know," you whisper as you run your lips down my neck and across my chest. I'm not sure if you heard me or if you just saw the sensations dancing above us. I imagine myself as one of the prettier girls I know you fuck during the week. I let my pudgy stretch marks melt into the sheet and try to feel beautiful underneath you. The only light in the room comes from the hallway, slipping in through the cracks in the door, along with a muted bass line from the stereo downstairs. The light seemed sickly yellow before, but mixed with the music, it seems cooler, an almost sea green. It reflects off our skin, and I pretend I'm a mermaid. I imagine you must taste like the ocean, and I put my mouth to your shoulder to check. You don't taste at all like the bitter, salty scent pouring in through the door. You leave a sweet taste on my lips, like my clove cigarettes, but stronger. I kiss your shoulder, your neck, your face. I notice how your breath sounds exactly like the music from downstairs.

"Look at me," I tell you.

"What?" you ask as you burn me with your blue eyes that now look purple in the ocean light.

"You're beautiful," I whisper.

You laugh and kiss me.

I see the white sheet and the brown carpet and our empty plastic cups, and we're up against the wall. I know you're not as high as I am because you're too concentrated on my body, and I can't concentrate on anything. I don't even know how I'm standing up.

"Don't stop breathing," I remind you. Your breath and your pulse are weaving streaks of red into the ocean air. It occurs to me that if I were sober I'd find the color combination horrendous, but I'm too high to be anything but fascinated.

You ignore my instructions as you reach behind me to unfasten my bra. You accomplish the task too easily, but I don't care. I think to myself that everyone looks good in the ocean. Your mouth is on my chest, and the colors start spinning, and I'm laughing like a little girl at a carnival.

You're on top of my again. We're on the ceiling. I never did consider myself to be much of a dancer.

"Are you okay?" You brush my hair out of my face, and it feels like you brushed part of my cheek away. I feel my skin floating in the waves, with your pulse.

"No," I whisper. "I'm empty." I bring my hand up to feel the hole in my face, but my fingers are gone, too. The only thing I can feel is where your skin is touching mine. I reach down to undo your belt, and you just stare at me. I stop and blush.

"Don't stop," you instruct, and you bring my hands back down to your waist. I slip one hand in your pants, and I wonder how long you've been hard. You moan as my hand brushes against you.

You fill the room, all reds and purples, and I feel you everywhere. No matter how much you touch me, I want more.