we don't talk. we haven't for months. we do this a lot, prolonged periods of radio silence and then uptakes of conversation. I always end it, or rather my life situation does, and spend time pining for it to begin again. you know the effect you have on me and each reconciliation is sweeter than the next. you first kissed me outside your front door after 6 episodes of house of cards and I murmured to you, what took you so long, baby? the next time I came over I was plastered, and you took a second to glance at me from head to toe and promised you'd never while my time away again. as I left that night you almost opened the door but pushed me against it instead, pulling my hair while placing your mouth over mine, as if you were trying to devour my soft moans.
I think about you all the time. it's not love, certainly not lust. it's the warm sensation you brought along with your presence, it's the nurture you provided that I crave. it's the way you made my insides feel. that night you stayed up late with me at the library as I studied and my hands shook like a rabbit because of the way I felt about you. the way you looked at me through your thick eyelashes in the mornings, begging me to sleep in just this once. the soft mhmms you coo'd into my ear as I whined to you about my life and its state of disarray. the nights I'd crawl back into bed resenting everything and you'd, half asleep, take your arms around my waist like a boa constrictor or better yet a blood pressure machine wrapping tightly tightly tightly until I swore I'd die right then and there and then letting go at just the right moment