You Have What I Want.

Your cheek is scratchy, pure sandpaper against mine. I don't have that. My cheek is always smooth and soft.

Your arms are ropey and muscled, hair up and down their length. I don't have that. My arms are soft and gently shaped.

Your neck smells like soap and sweat and basil, of hard work and the world. I don't have that. My throat is sweetly scented as though your breath is its first touch.

Your chest is hard and hairy. I don't have that. My chest is rounded, smooth, breasts waiting to fill your mouth.

You're sunburned. I'm aristocratically pale.

I want the rough. I want your hardness and unyielding frame. I want your dark scents smeared all over me. I want pink-chapped skin from the brush of your face. Your arms contract as you pin my wrists; I'm weaker.

I want what you have.