I want you to climb inside me. Here, in this lonely aching place. It’s not a sad place really. No. It’s a wanting place. A place where I am. Where my flesh is. Where everything about me being here reinforces that you are not.

Sometimes I lull myself into forgetting that I want you. That I need you in my ears and in my hands and in my eyes and in my cunt and in my heart. That I long for you. Sometimes I trick myself with distractions, and through silence, and with other men. But then I see you again, and I feel peeled open, blooming, bursting with wanting you. With needing you.

The embers of my desire lie hidden, buried, but they burn on, and the slightest hint of air, the smallest crack, sends them licking forth again. Building slowly. Consuming me. Not a raging fire, but a slow, hot, smoldering one. Warming me. Making me too warm.

When your eyes are on me I become suddenly shy. Suddenly quiet. Suddenly self-conscious yet calculating.

Those feelings that I thought had died down grow stronger. They build until my thighs are slick against each other as we talk.

Every time I allow myself to want you I want you more than I ever have before.