find someone who knows you’re sad just by the change of tone in your voice
be with someone who loves the feature that you hate the most
fall in love with someone who looks at you and knows they don’t want anyone else
"You’re talking about how to fix the television and I can’t speak because it’s been years since I’ve been close enough to touch you. I walk up behind you and fiddle with the cable chord, twisting and pushing until the static disappears. Our friends don’t notice when you press your fingers against mine. Our friends don’t notice when you move closer and the hum between our bodies starts singing.
We don’t talk. We’ve never been good at it, so we stand next to each other, bodies almost touching, and we make it enough. Your fingers circle my wrist and my palm opens while they trail down and trace every groove.
The next time we see each other, the store is so crowded that I’m pushed up against your chest, trying not touch you like I want to. We still don’t talk, but you pull me closer when the woman behind me pushes too hard, pressing your hand against the small of my back with a growl. There’s a man behind us trying to cut in line, and we let him. You move even closer when the line moves, and my mouth is so close to your neck that I can already taste you, so I press it against the blue vein and wonder if this is all we were ever supposed to be. When your hand digs deeper into my back like it belongs there, I kiss your neck again, harder, teeth leaving small bruises because I want you to remember, I want you to feel this tomorrow.
we don’t talk about it. on Tuesday I wind up on your couch, and we are kissing like we’re barely human, all nails and teeth and tongue and none of it hurts, even though it should. I am underneath you and I lean up to bite your bottom lip, just to feel you moan into my mouth.
“You’re killing me” is the first thing you say, breath hot and urgent against my neck, hands pressing valleys into my hips.
“Good” is the only word I can say without everything aching, so I say it. You press your lips back against mine and twist until I’m on top of you, writhing in your lap like some dying, desperate animal.
Your beard is scratching my jaw, sandpaper against wood, and I hope I never forget the way it burns. I bite your chin and feel you shudder.
“Want you like this, forever” your voice a vicious whisper, torn and shredded.
and I’m not sure I mean if, but we don’t talk about it after. We press our fingers to our bruises. At least we have that."