It crawls through my veins like poison, this burn, this viscous lust.
Once a month at the trough is a cruel joke. Three times in a lone weekend whips it into a frenzy. It is not slaked. I am an ocean with no shore, my waves crash against nothing.
I am untouchable in too many ways. I haven’t thought of him in days, weeks maybe. Too many hours I’ve forgotten what I wanted with him.
Closeness, to breathe his breath, to hold my hand on his warm, broad chest, the spring of curls beneath my palm to softly remind me of our differences. To awaken with the sun caressing his face, his icy blue eyes softly gazing at me behind his lashes, our days laid out ahead in a lazy trail of orgasms and fucking brunch. To feel the sandpaper stubble of his shaven head and the odd giddiness of adult love.
His absence has allowed for light, but I choke on my independence, my fear of that same closeness I longed for with him. I am at once repelled and drawn toward the false hope of intimacy. I want to argue, but have no one to rail against.
I taste my thirst for a man in my tears, in the wetness between my legs. It spills out of me, this urge to put another human being deep inside of me, to lose myself in the power of his drive, the punching of his hips. I drown in its depths, even as it singes the pathways to my heart.
Please, someone, put me out of my misery.
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