"Don’t get attached to moments. Good or bad, they all pass."
Lust. Must. Dust. Trust.
It was his friend’s birthday bash.. They were drunk, asking each other for a kiss. She wondered why, he didn’t answer. Slowly, he leaned down and pressed his lips on hers. He looked at her in a way that isn’t right. Such lust. Neck being kissed, biting each others lips, playing with his hair, kissing her forehead and stroking her skin. Such lust. Pushing her up against the wall to make it rough, showing her how he want it. Trust in her, don’t just lust in her. Then one day, she caught him stalking his past. She felt the pangs of jealousy stabbed her, what a pitiful delight. She felt the tears coming down and so she went upstairs. He followed and asked. Such lust, she’s lost. Lost. Oh, she shouldn’t be lost, she fucking knew it right from the start. Such lust, he’s still trapped and haunted by his past. She’s hurt, badly hurt. How pathetic, utterly pathetic. Pity, lust. Front and back, bittersweet. Front and back, she will leave. But to feel his lips against hers is enough to soothe her soul. She opened her eyes and have no idea which direction is home. Such lust. Pure intimacy, don’t even have a chance to level it up. Such a pitiful scene. Jealousy, bitterness, tiredness, hope, lust and love: it’s everywhere but they were all abstract. Love is a rug. Just a little kiss can make him smug, and she always get trampled on like a rug. Lust is a rug. He thinks she’s sensitive, she thinks he’s a carefree guy. Sometimes, they snob each other and then they fuck. He hold her waist and grab her thighs, bullshit. Such lust. She lay in bed, for hours at night, thinking about everything. Does it bother him? Does he even care? Motherfucking life. How she hoped, that he is brave enough to ask her how his heart felt against her chest. She finds warmth in his arms, but can’t comprehend what’s going on. WTF. WTH. Fuck fuckity fuck. Taking a risk, taking a risk. And then she told herself mentally; minus the chills, minus the chills. Messing around with cannabis, she thinks of him. Such lust, such lust, such a rug. He’s not just into her, maybe? And she is still a hopeless romantic fag.