I know you.

I know every inch of you, every curve and line. My fingers have been down those ways a million times before. I was scared at first to touch you, afraid someone would be hurt, but now I can work you like a miracle, until every stroke sends you home.

You don't know me. Not the whispers from another, not how my body aches or my feet bleed or my heart feels low sometimes. But you care, in your own way. You let me fill you, click - click - click, and I've cared for you, until every motion is like a sinner's dream.

I can make you forget, you say, when I look at you. I don't want to. I can take it away. No more of those other girls, no more of the hurt. No more long days stretching on forever.

You want to, with your eager gleam, want to help me forget her in another man's arms, want to help me like you helped him, and him.

But you're bad for for me, no matter how sweet your cold kiss might be.

I won't.

But some days, my eyes linger, and I wish you could kiss me free.