I crave you.
I crave your fingertips dancing softly along my back, tracing circles as if you’re marking where to kiss me next.
I crave the softness of your lips landing on my neck and collarbone, with every kiss planting thoughts of the things you’ll do to me in my head.
I crave the pauses between our kisses, where an “I love you” isn’t said but is clearly known, the eye contact so strong that a person could tightrope along our gaze.
I crave the music in your voice and the art in your touch.
I crave you, endlessly.