Let the thoughts cross the distance in your eyes
Your skin glistens with cold sweat and your chest heaves, up and down, up and down, as you try to draw in enough oxygen to satisfy your lungs. You dreamt of him, of skin against heated skin and the symphony of two bodies fitting together in the small expanse of a bed, limbs tangled and hands roaming, exploring, digits pressing gently against scars and mouths opening, closing, opening and whispering each other’s names in the dark.
You think of him; of his mouth, of his hands, of his eyes, of that fucking accent that drives you up the wall. You touch yourself; you groan, and moan out his name between desperate gasps.
You close your eyes and imagine your hands are his hands. He knows exactly where to touch, how to turn you into a mess of broken words and incoherent sounds. His name spills from your lips like a prayer.
You can’t imitate the drawl of his words, but if you concentrate hard enough you can hear it as an echo inside your head. You’ve heard it so many times before that you’re sure it’s something you will never forget.
You apply more pressure, until your moans turn into hisses and it throbs.
It’s an erotic mixture of pain and pleasure and you lose yourself in the sensation.
When you come, it’s with his name choked in a scream and a sob.
You feel empty afterwards, hollow, boneless and tired.
You think about calling him, and you wonder what he’ll say. If he’ll say anything.
You wonder if he heard your message or if he deleted it as soon as he heard the first word. You wouldn’t be surprised. Stubborn son of a bitch that he is.
You don’t bother to clean yourself up. The cum is warm and sticky against your stomach. You still sleep wearing only pants, even when it’s beyond freezing point outside. You’ll bother in the morning, when you shower, because for now, that’s a reminder of how badly you fucked up. The stars above your head, glow-in-the-dark things that stick to your ceiling, mock you. It’s nothing like the night sky you’ve seen before. Even in Hong Kong the stars were beautiful. The clock on your phone says it’s almost 3 A.M.
You type up a text and your finger hovers above the ‘send’ button until you lose track of time.
You don’t send it, but you don’t delete it either. It goes straight to your drafts and stays there.
Maybe you’ll send it tomorrow.
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