You give me no fever.
That, you must understand, is the difficult part. You give me no fever — I do not dream of the sinuous curves of your legs twining about mine — I do not fantasize about the warm cavern of your mouth, the delicious slip of your devil’s tongue against mine — I do not think about a future with you, any one, not tomorrow, not next month or next year, not the next hour or moment. I do not anticipate you, your texts or your phone calls, your presence or your voice.
You give me no fever. You give me no want.
You give me you and I do not know how I will ever live without you; I do not know how I will ever move on from you; I do not know where I begin and you end; I do not know what it is we have done.
I’d rather a fever. It would devastate me less at it’s inevitable conclusion.
I’d rather lust. The loss of this love will only sever my soul from this life.