He made a noise then, some desperate whimper that I knew I’d spend the rest of my life thinking about, and tore his mouth from mine to look down into my eyes. His cheeks were flushed pink and his mouth a bright strawberry red and I thought I might cry from how beautiful he looked. It was the sort of beautiful great art and literature was created for. Fragile and delicate and destructive. I would write about it the very instant I was alone, and if the words didn’t exist to describe it, then I’d create new ones. I reached my lips up, seeking his again, and he took pity on me and kissed me again.
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