Photo by Dana

Sin smells like leather, honeysuckle blossoms, cologne that lingers on hungry skin for hours.

Sin tastes like strawberry juice on his fingers, briny olives on a sunny day, bitter good-byes we were too afraid to say.  

Sin sounds like the hitch of his breath taking it all in before he lets it all go, autumn leaves trembling with the approach of winter, tears that splatter on a blank page.

Sin looks like my amber eyes in heat, honeyed pleasure glistening on his chin, a sliver of moonbeam on skin he’s never seen.  

Sin feels like hair wrapped around his hand, his head that rests wearily in my lap, a boat that is about to sink.  


**Sin is this and so much more.


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