Earl-of-Grey

You spend your nights reaching for Apollo’s robes. You’re as hot as New Orleans in mid-July, and as fierce as her gumbo. But, he is light-years away and your fingers ache with tired insecurity.- a disaster in your own moon skin. Even if it fucking hurts, you can still taste his heat on your tongue. Gods be damned, you’re a butterfly- ( even if mounted to a bed. ) One day, you will find yourself and fly away.