The female form

Neck of smooth marble, the crook of which I rest my lips upon. Shoulders and collarbones I could call mine. Exposed skin bathed in moonlight from window blinds. The female form itself is a siren, femininity as old as the dips of valleys and the peaks of mountains. My infatuation is a cycle, her stomach as I run my fingers over it, skin like water reverberating underneath my touch. She has gripped me, shirt crumpled like she understands what force she is about to enact. I am a sailor begging to be pulled into the maelstrom.

–Merrilee Bufkin