Velvet

When the full moon arrives and wolves are howling, slow jam on the bedside, dancing to the fever, you slide across the river, holding ciroc like a sword, drunk on the cold like a poison. You throw away your sword, saying your crown have you receieved. The music wanes, but your bliss intensifies; I could taste the flames from your chiseled jaw, our lips slurring 'yes' in satisfaction. It feels like entering a hollow cave, but the surrounding is hustling and bustling with the echo of your breath. 

'This crown is interesting', whispers your other breath, dazzingly so. 

'You're a velvet. A good velvet.' Maybe because you've never tasted the other side of the blue; and I am only a decent velvet. 

You don't need wisdom for answers, as your tongue plastering lingering delicacies across my skin; your twisted benevolent is when you hop each side of the canyon and float above the deep sea, to dive fervently. 

'You're a good velvet.'

That's the only thing we remember.