I actually don’t want it unless you cannot keep your hands to yourself and have to be touching me all the time. I want your hands on my hips, on my back, on my shoulders, on my thighs, on my knee when we drive. I want to be pulled into your lap. I want you to press kisses against any inch of skin I have bare. I want you to be addicted to the way my body feels against yours. I want touch.
Vincent van Gogh, Wheat Fields after the Rain, 1890, oil on canvas
Carnegie Museum of Art, Pittsburgh, PA
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Magical stained glass
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