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intimacy. the little imp you don’t want when you have it.

This is what I forgot

I make things intimate

Putting my hand on a man’s face

A man’s neck

I like the feeling of feeling him

Without fail he closes his eyes

I imagine the only thing on his mind is the touch of my skin on his

The weight and tremor of my hand

I think he is content

I’m fulfilling some need he has

Some need I have

When he reciprocates I gasp and sigh simultaneously

I hope it’s not noticeable

I haven’t forgotten

I never knew he might like the feeling of feeling me

Would I go back?

Of course, I would

to a time of physical discovery

and comfort.

I want that again

and wanting is a sweet ache.

I want to do what he won’t,

a separate pain

that prevents me from moving

through viscous dreams to reality.


And anyway.

If it were true,

if it were to become real,

my world would become destructive

and months after the aftermath,

I’d be rendered raw and wanting again.

SOB with me

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