Stairwell

I miss kissing in a stairwell, shoved against painted cement, hands fighting for fabric, encasing each delectable part of your body. I miss wet lips, quick lips, fighting the urge to go further but to cover as much ground as possible, tripping over breaths and a little too much tongue. Holding me back are my teeth and my urge to moan, knowing with too much excitement head meets wall and gravity shifts, telling me your arms are the place to be rather than grounded on earth, in a stairwell, a hundred feet from my door.