Prospect (n.)

Just the prospect of you
is enough to send me spiraling down
into this beautiful maze of unending ‘what if’s’

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Tiptoe

I tiptoe around the room, not wanting to wake him up as I pick up discarded clothes strewn haphazardly around the floor, shed from last night’s coition. Coition. I laugh to myself. Fancying up this messy dance between two strangers who barely know each other yet pretending to change the game and saving each other from a night of binge watching in pajamas and sipping wine or beer by ourselves.

It’s not the same when it’s not with you. I never let his hands linger too long on my skin. It feels wrong. Almost violating, to be honest. A small voice in my head protests with every contact, “Don’t! Stop! She is not yours to touch!” Silly.

His breath feels hot yet cold at the same time. It’s not the same with you.

Your breath fans the inferno in me. Your touch was always warm enough that it wraps itself like a fleece blanket that comforts my soul.

We tried to do everything and when I think we’ve exhausted all our options and move past the phase of exploration as if you’ve inhabited my body and I, in yours, there is always something to discover, new music, new rhythm to dance to.

But perhaps that was our undoing – we had everything and it still wasn’t enough.

So for the last time, in my effort to romanticize the word tiptoe and make it seem at least a bit poetic, I tiptoe out of the room and permanently out of his life.