his hands wrap about,trace about
her neck and up along her jawbone and
up around her ears and into her hair
with light brown strands cascading around
and flowing between his fingers
in a sunlight mosaic through
sun bleached windowpanes
her lips part in slow slight moans
as he leans in and plants fractions
of kisses alongside the edges of her eyes
and down alongside the edges
of her cheekbones to her jawline down
to her nape and on to where
her collarbones perch like tinder.
His hands her lips
I don’t owe people anything, and I don’t have to talk to them any more than I feel I need to.
So please ask yourself: what would I do if I weren’t afraid? And then go do it.
― Sheryl Sandberg (Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Lead)