reg edits stuff as well

GLENN J. CASIRAGHI || IT BECOMES ONE OF OUR RITUALS.

It becomes one of our rituals: like sharing a pot of freshly brewed tea every morning in his office before work, like building snow igloos over frost-tipped blades of grass in winter, like slow-dancing underneath the moon with music fading in the background. 

He knows how to make flower crowns for me these days, his hands quick and practiced, fingers deftly braiding grasshopper-thin stems into something less brittle, something beautiful, something absolutely and completely ours. 

They’re the same hands that cherish me with summer-kissed warmth right now, the same hands that grip my own with a tiny, telling sort of hesitation as he comes closer, leans forward, the same hands that gently rest at the nape of my neck, gently entangle themselves in the mass of my brown hair, gently cup my face.

He presses his lips to mine, and I am gone. 

ROBERTO BUTTON || YOURS FOR THE TAKING. 

There is a kiss on the night before his wedding, a sliver of weakness when you’re buttoning the suit you designed up his chest for one last fitting and he says wait, let me, and grabs your hands instead. 

When it happens, neither of you bother with the lights. His bedroom is dark and quiet, the rain pattering loud and steady against the windowpanes. The silk of his bedsheets feels cool and strange against your bare back, and he is beautiful like this: warm and wanting and for once wholly yours, if only for the moment. 

Tell me don’t go, he begs against your lips, his breath a plea that imprints bruises on your neck, on your collarbones and shoulders. He is inside you—skin on skin, heartbeat on heartbeat, bones on bones—and it feels right and it feels wrong, like nipping a bud before it blooms and tearing it to shreds. Like a slow, inevitable descent into madness. Like dancing on the edge of sin. Tell me to stay, he begs, and this time you whisper no

He is moving inside you and you tell him forget me. He is moving inside you and you tell him be happy.

His smile grows rickety, fractured, a string the moment before it snaps, a bridge the moment before it collapses. You want nothing more than to imprint it to the back of your eyelids. You want nothing more than to smash it, keep the splinters for days when the sky is weeping.