She stares at the man who loves her, his sunken eyes look to her like the sun in its glory, his scars like a shrunken flower petal kept between the pages of a book and put away for years, alive in it’s own right when the rest of it is dead and gone; a memory always looked after. When he stares back at her, she knows she will never have him.
She rests on the back of the man who loves her, speechless they stare into blank space each understanding unspoken words and lost in the nuance that theirs would never be a dream come true.
Words come out as grunts when he plants a kiss on her cheek and as moans when he bites into her neck slowly but consistently and then as pleas when she feels the wetness in her pants and the fear that she would soon lose what resistance she put up grips her as she tearfully jerks his hands off her hips and sadly announces her plan to take a leave. His pleas beat drums in her ears. Deaf to his words, she walks away, satisfied she knows now his love language.
Time, she tells the other. Time and yours is touch.