Sometimes I think about the things I used to have
and somehow they always start with your hands and end at your lips—and somehow: I’m always stuck tracing your masculinity with my fingertips.
Sometimes I don’t remember what it’s like, and I wander, but at the middle of the night all I remember is the feel of your calloused hands against the stagger of my hips.
“You taste like Vanilla”—and I wonder if it’s what all boys are meant to say to all those who are subtlety sweet.
I miss the feeling of being engulfed by the kind of want that bridges on need: I miss the feeling of being necessary, of being vital.
I miss the feeling of being somebody’s: of being dependent and never alone.
I miss the feeling before lonely—the bridge that bordered alone.
I miss, I miss—I miss.