imagine him lighting a candle and brewing tea. imagining his fingers messing with your record player - it took you ages to let him touch it. he had to touch you first, prove he knows what he’s doing. imagine him guiding you to the couch or your bed and getting in first, sitting up with his back against your headboard, inviting you onto his lap. imagine his lips on your skin, on your forehead, on your cheeks, finding your neck and breathing you in. imagine the words he would say when you start pulling away to collect the steaming mug. imagine the caffeine on his tongue - quick wit, dreams he could make come true if you wanted him to. imagine him fixing everything. imagine how scary it would be when you realize all that he can do, all that he can take care of. imagine how easy it would become to crave it, to ask for it, to offer a key that unlocks far more than your front door. imagine letting him in. imagine feeling warmer once you do, feeling sweeter, wondering if you made all of those problems up yourself because they’d be easier to fix than the gaping void in your gut waiting for love. the prickles on your skin awaiting a touch. your eyes waiting to gaze. your hands waiting to clutch. your tongue waiting to ask waiting to beg waiting to wonder and moan and whisper and admit and inquire and become.