I find myself less contained now. I’ve worked to wrap myself up, make myself tidy and presentable, but it’s all coming unwound.

I can feel it in the empty yearning of my mouth, fingers straying to slip inside. I can feel it in the squish and slip in the crotch of my jeans. I feel it in public, where it’s becoming harder to stay still. Harder not to twitch and lean and pulse and undulate on the bus ride home from work. In the way my thoughts drift from even the most innocent things.

It’s been two years since you let me touch you. Two years is too long.