It's static. The feeling.

These jolts will relay themselves as unsettling at first but once they spark as the flame that set me ablaze, I know heaven is close enough to taste. It takes mere seconds to settle through the tips of my fingers. A glance at your photo, through the distance that seems so unforgivably far away; but it isn't. Translating by a means of secretly admiring from this bittersweet space. Does the heart feverishly call out my name? It coins unto what pure lust is; molded by its fabric to the most authentic of forms. It strikes itself as sinful... So it begs the question: Then why does it feel so good? If God chose for it not to be, why must this fantasized intimacy feel like a reeled film tucked behind the discreetness of my mind? Simply put, only one word describes the act of sex: Righteousness—and so it leads us to understand, it is in fact, God's direction. If appointed by the one who knows all, it can never be disputed as wrong.

I don't normally fawn like this. For you, I do. From the bliss of the evening, lapsed into the sliver of dawn—where the sunrise cuts past the night's sky and morning is soon to arise. The definition of your flesh is far beyond attention to detail. I have heard the echo looming against the impassioned thoughts I seldom have the ability to get rid of and they tell me to gratify all of what desire intends itself toward you. This is pleasurable tension.

I am caught watching over and over again, until the tape unravels. Just as you do, I fall into the trap of being unable to resist. For what tempts the scorch of romance is unlike what you and I know as a reality. This is what dreams conjure themselves up to be. If I think as hard as I humanly could, the ticking of a clock regards each sole second of lonesome without the presence of you. It needs something to pulse from—something that will frost the heat that cannot be contained. I am not to blame, despite it feeling that way. It roars until it is heard. Obnoxious in nature though it inspires the love to which we make. The affection we imagined is that of a complex and delicate fashion. Patience is growing itself to be difficult. Regardless of the reward, what are we meant to strive for? Is it the work of unparalleled admiration? Perhaps.

It doesn't need to be explained; nor does it crave to. Descriptions and definitions only bring a satisfying glow to those who are aroused by it most. It is straightforward and it pleads to elaborate—yet you will not allow it to fall into place. Soon, it is to be concluded: Confliction is the most natural addiction.