Compulsion.

He: Her heart beats alike indiscriminate chatter; through crowds as thick as thieves love. I can feel it motion out for me. My body arcs to the thought of your flames in dire proximity. Alone each day, in my tomb of silence, I can still hear the rush of air between our lips as they wrestle to become one.

She: The joy that clouds my soul as I think of how much fire burns in his tongue for my skin. I envy his meals and all the straws on which he sips his drinks. I am at loggerheads with everything that gets to be tasted by his tongue. “Are these things more charmed than I am?” I wonder, sadly.

Photocredit: "Les Amants" by the Surrealist painter René Magritte