You starve me beautifully. The ache of wanting you is a slow, sweet dagger in the throat. I live in the space between your touch and mine, where hope bruises purple. It is exquisite to be denied, to lick the silver rim of this cup you refuse to let me drink from. My hunger is a fire that does not heat, it only burns away the rest of the world until only you remain. I am your wound, and I am pleased.
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