it's a force field holding me down

There's something about the boy that makes you want to touch him. That's the first thought that strikes me when the haze lifts, when my pulse has settled back into its regular murmur, and when sounds hit me again in the heavy rise and fall of the chest under my hand. This isn't the first time I've been here, not the first boy I've been with, not the first time I've been with this boy, and only because of all of the above, I notice. The way I can't tear my hand away from him. The way I need to feel every rise and fall of his chest like it's feeding air into my lungs. The both of us are still slick with sweat, and I ache like I'll never move again, the sheets starting to stick under my weight, but when I move, it's only to press closer to him, one of his legs caught between my own.

There's something about him, and I love that for these few seconds, I don't have to let go.

It takes a while for my words to come back. Always had, for things like this. Listening's the easiest thing in the world, but I went years without saying a single word. I speak in smiles, in the press of tongues, in the arch of a brow, and for now I speak in the press of my lips against his shoulder, a soft exhale falling from me as I turn over to lay over his body, skin pressed flush.

I can't help think that he looks a bit like an overgrown tree. Branches too thin to support his weight.