For some women, you know, it changes.
We start off with me all over your body, needing to breathe you and feel you constantly, ceaselessly, wondrously, until you feel like a smothered treasure, no breath, no air.
Then at some point, when you make your displeasure at our stifling known, it changes.
Then we retreat into a little place inside our minds, a little room that grows bigger, where we don’t You, where we stifle ourselves with our self love that can never, really, be too much, anyway.
We remember Number 1. And You be damned.
Don’t let it change.