It was like a fugue state. The white noise had spread across my brain. Continue reading
I wasn’t ready for you.
She is not what I would have wanted to choose for myself (note: this is not to say she is not what I want. she is.)
I want her.
I am her forbidden thrill.
That word, “enough”, is small. It’s two syllables, six letters, and has enough power to shake foundations, to shake relationships, to shake worlds. To shake my world; to break it even. I hate that word. It is always forged as a weapon – and the target for that weapon is me.
She’s somewhere not with me right now, not tonight. Her voice isn’t on the other end of the line; not the raspy sound of her drawing a deep breath; not the snuffles as she holds back the looming sleepiness; not the comfort of being fully known to another soul.
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
She gives me sweaty palms. I met her, randomly, at a party