I want to hold you but I can’t. I want to kiss you but I can’t. Want to lay your body onto a surface and fuck the ever-living fuck out of you but I can’t. I can feel that leg. Briefly clasp that hand. Feel you inhale deeply as our bodies press together for longer than they should. I breathe you in as you lean over me under the guise of whatever excuse you’ve invented to do so. Good God you smell like home.
Do you want to touch feet? Torsos? Feel a tense raking of calloused fingers down your back as I hold on for eleven lifetimes? Exchange wantings in a not-so-sacred webspace with zero outward coaxing? Stuff like this sets off a dangerously catalyzed bomb of all the right neurotransmitters when everything works out the way it’s not supposed to, you know. I fear we’ve crossed a line of some sort, but all I feel bad about is getting swept up enough to believe that I wanted to get married in the first place. Oh, and I also look fondly upon that one guy.
I thought I was imagining it. Your voice in the back of my mind, a pleasant disruption in my daily routine that convinces me to miss you so restlessly between every meeting. This, a psychological exercise among me and a stranger with a disposition of similarity to that I desired would be yours as you read for my voice. Gently asking the Google if Hogwarts is a real place. What is this? I’ve had a ridiculous idea for about thirteen years. What’s yours?
It would be nice to know what I’m supposed to do with any of this. Nice to understand how this is favorable to either of our well-beings. I mean . . . even the meteorologist’s voice cracks when he talks about the outside temperatures.