I want to make love to you.
In smooth sheets, music playing, slowly and graceful.
I want to press my hands to the muscles of your back and discover the creases and knots and scars.
I want to remember every inch of you.
I want to fall asleep safe at your side, humming because words aren’t necessary anymore, save for your name.
I want to fuck you.
Against a wall, the neighbors complaining, frantic and powerful.
I want to drag my nails against your skin and create the bruises and welts and scars.
I want to mark every inch of you.
I want to fall asleep tangled in your limbs, breathless because I’ve used up all my words, screaming your name.
I want you.
The weight of everything you are.
And everything you could be.
You’re not here, you’re absent,
and my hand is not like yours.
It’s kind of nice on my own skin
(but not the same, of course)
I think about your breath on me
the warm tickle of hot lips.
The pressure of your body,
the grinding of your hips.
I imagine that you touch me,
eager eyes and eager tongue.
A soft laugh and a soft whisper,
“I want to watch you cum”
I squeeze myself and shudder,
I shake and cum and groan.
I’m lying here, and missing you
It’s much less fun alone.