to make you my own

These days, I prefer feeling hungry to feeling full.

It feels more right to be hungry,
perhaps because my soul is hungry, in a way, as well.

I’m craving for the girl with the most beautiful cheek bones, and the most beautifully painted lips, and the most intense eyes.

She’s leaning back in her chair, completely captured by the happenings in the front. Some people are talking, making gestures; a little helpless, they seem to me, and I return their smiles, but I don’t listen. Their words pass me by like nebulous shapes, and vanish into nothingness.

I don’t care. I’m looking at her.

I’m inhaling the shades around her, absorbing the colour of her skin; her lightly brown, bronzy skin. My glances wander along her arms, sensing every hair on it, continuing over the shoulders, to her face. Her lips, and the deep, intense expression in her eyes; I dare not to look too long.

What is desire, if not love in its purest form?