Lulu

Sometimes I'm light and giggly and I smile too easily. I meet you more than halfway, kiss you softly, run my fingers over your skin and breathe in the scent of you. Lulu, you'd call me, if you knew. But you don't.

Other times all I want is teeth on my neck, hands pushing me up against the wall, clothing almost ripping as it gives way. I want you to tell me all your filthiest secrets, and I want to smile about them and save them for dark nights all alone. Tallulah, then.

I like to think that I've kept those secrets, that somehow in telling them to me, you've lost them. When you think back for them now, your memory skitters over them and slides to a stop, instead, on thoughts of me. Of how it felt when I pulled you in and kissed you (wasn't going to do that) and how it felt when you came the last time (wish it wasn't).

The dark side and the sweet side are both out of your reach these days. And yet they're closer than you think.