His eyes make me think of pornography. His mouth makes me think of his tongue. His arms make me think of stained wood, and the tight tension of his muscles, creaking and shivering as he holds his weight above my skin. His voice makes me think of admissions, confessions whispered in a deep and rattling bass in my ear wet with his kiss. His hands make me think of my breasts. His neck makes me think of the taste of his sweat like honeyed salt on my curling tongue in the dark room that we will never share. I hate pornography.