Touch

 

My fingers graze softly across my lips and I lust for them to be yours – to kiss, to suck. You know how I love to examine them with my mouth after you finish.

A memory nudges me.

Recalling the night your fingers motioned me to get into the car. We were desperate for a space to converge. You spread yourself against the center console, a fog pasted to the windows, your face imprinted onto the leather upholstery.

A song affixed to the night.

Melodies that played my entire life find new ways to connect you to me. Harmonized over memories of resting in your arms as I heard them for the first time, again. Verses instinctively waiting for this purpose.

Lyrics tap into the joy I feel when my body is pressed against yours, coming together with your moaning’s from my acts of service. My devotion to our adjoin.

Some boys have all the luck to be touched, without ever having to reach out. I miss your touch. I miss you. Not in tactile ways, I miss the sweep of optimism.

I disconnect with these feelings. Lean onto a shame for grasping them so easily. My lovelorn psyche. I rest in our denial of these passions and every time feels like the first time, again.

A forgetfulness nudges me.

You are not mine to freely touch. I am not yours.

I bump into doubts that my reaching out neighbors an uncomfortable pursuit, chafing the lightness you seek from me. I am a LOT within our limitations, abut with every edge. Searching to know where I stand if all you want is to lie beneath me.

The tune of the next song links to a despair over the bridge. The middle eight between our encounters where space fears that our next chorus could possibly be our last.

My fingers slip from my lips and restraint connects me to our realities. You know how I love to examine them with my heart after you finish.

Above: Self Portrait, February 2023