My eyelids are heavier than her thoughts, as I stretch out on her sofa and adjust my pants. I can smell the onions and curry on my own breath. Still, she will not mind my kissing. We are both too hot to care. Coconut oil permeates the air around us. She puts her head on my chest as I feign disinterest. I might not be completely pretending, being sleepy and sated. Morpheus can wait. Lust can not. She might not. I slide my hand under her shirt and over her smooth back. As her face comes up to mine, my other hand brushes past her naked nipple. It is hard, reflecting her steely gaze when she is debating whether to tell me something that she thinks is too personal. Moist and warm, her skin is clammy. Her passion is oozing out. Her lips taste salty, a sweetened vinegar dances on her tongue. I enjoy them that way. Ripe. Now my thoughts are heavy. I am spiralling into her temporary abyss, her black hole that I can escape from. When I close my eyes, I can see her reaching out me, asking me to go with her, I guess, to where affection takes people. Tonight, I will drown, lost in her embrace, shutting out the worries of tomorrow. Tomorrow can wait and not even come, for all we care. She can not.