He was like a handprint on her skin,
Burning her, a fire in her veins,
Lips that tasted of sweat and regret
and yet beautiful in their own way.
The sun could not make her warm,
as his arms encircling her did,
with a smile and a breath on her neck,
and words so sweet they almost hurt.
They pulled at the stitches in her heart,
allowing him entry to the cracks of her being,
weaving intricate webs entirely of him,
so he was the one keeping it beating.