I like oranges, the fruit.

They leave this tingly sensation on the tongue, they're juicy and it leaves it's juices on the corners of your mouth and it's hard to pick from your teeth.

I'm inspired by oranges, and you, of course.

I want to be unforgettable, I want people to peel or slice me open, being welcomed by my citrus smell that waters their mouths.

It's too bad that you beat me to it.

Your chest rises like me upon the lap of men who I don't care about, your lips are parted as you lick your lips in satisfaction as you look at your new artwork with a measuring tape on your neck, and you're listening to God knows what in your headphones.

You paint me, looking at me in my bare skin that's only being limited by the robe that hangs loosely off of my body as I hold a cigarette between my fingers to recreate the idea you encapsulated in your head for this project. Part of me wished your body was in my mouth, not this stick of tobacco that was just a prop for your intense hands to draw on your paper.

You looked more stressed than usual, I couldn't tell if it was by the furrow of your brow or the silence that lingered in the air with such thickness.

"Are you okay?", I quietly questioned.

You hummed in response, not even looking at me which bruised my ego a bit. It's okay, it would be rebuild as soon as I lay in the bed of the boy who occupies your sheets less frequently, Suna Rintaro—I can see why you fuck him so much, the man bruised my neck and made me moan loud enough to wake the corpses of victims who laid in the cold, ancient wars of Rome.

Sex with him was godly, but sex with you would be devilish. I would overwrite the Bible with scripts of ways to make you orgasm from my movements if it was to persuade your cold exterior.

I continued to ask, "Is it boy problems?"

"Don't be stupid," you scoffed but I knew it was exactly that because of your tone, batting your eyelashes in a less uniform sequence than you usually do—I noticed you did that every time you lied.

I wished I could press my ear close to your heart, just to figure out the change in your heartbeat at the time you lie—just to know if you really loved Suna, the photographer that had images of your rope-tied body as his wallpaper which I noticed when he slid into my lubricated walls, kissing my shoulder as he opened his phone to record my lips part like an opera singer in their solo.

"Boys are complicated, they love sex and they run after it until they find that spark."

You rose your brow, "And you're a boy, so when do you think you're going to find your spark?"

"Soon."

Her hand motions stopped, something changed in her eyes as she looked at me with underlying curiosity that she refused to set free under that beautifully crafted semblance that she hid until nighttime, that was when you would spread your legs for the lover that abandoned you or for the toys that pushed you to such wild climaxes. I wasn't going to tell you that it wasn't hard to hear as you walk past your door, I loved the sound of your desperate moans too much to allow that pleasure to be taken away from me.

"How do you know that you found the 'spark' with someone?" You directed your eyes more softer, having a soft grin of interest in the conversation.

"You feel your body feel tired but desperate for more, not wanting to leave them in their pleasure because you want to admire their body, enjoy the sweat and heat that you put them in."

It fell quiet, again but soon, that changed as you let out a small giggle. I tilted my head in slight shock of your response, usually you would've ignored me but you seemed to have more intent to listen, as if it was your only way of interaction from a person you could at least tolerate.

"You should be a poet, that was really clever."

I laughed in unison, "Thank you."

I was thirsty, not for any liquid but for your compliments. I wanted to dissect all of them from your lungs and make them into droplets that I could feed myself every morning, afternoon and night. I was plagued by the idea of having you for my digestion—for only my use.

"How about you show me how that spark feels then?", you suggested—boldly, clearly requesting such a thing from someone you used to mock.

You took off your apron, walking towards me with dried paint on your shirt and making yourself a statement with each step you took closer towards me, you were unmasking the pleasurable parts of yourself and it felt too soon—I had to satisfy my craving later on but a little play couldn't hurt, I wanted to feel your body against the pads of my fingers. I needed to.

Once your legs were between mine, I wrapped my hands on the sides of your waist—they fit perfectly between your rolls that greeted me as if they were waiting for me to come in their crevices.

"You're not ready for that," I smiled, "wasn't I just another freeloader to you?"

Your hands caressed my arms until you crept to my face, putting your lips against my ear to make the low vibrations of your voice become my death: "You're right .. I want to fuck your mind first."