Sometimes I just miss you

Texts during work, right after we had lunch together:

“...And you’re sexy.”
“Why?”
“Hahaha, guess where I am in my cycle?”
“Duh. Lol”
“But you really are sexy.”
“I think you just miss me”

Ithinkyoujustmissme.

Oh. It’s impossible, the missing. How I miss you. Even though you are right there, weaving in and out of my life, and I am right there, weaving in and out of yours. It’s unreal, the missing. But there it is, eating up my spine alive.

I want us to talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk. TALK. Oh how we can fucking talk. I want each and every word to evaporate off our skin and then thunder down so hard we scramble under the covers. Then I want your skin and your scent and your taste and your breath. Oh your breath, oscillating into my mine. Oh your breath, building up all the parts of me I cannot see. I want the joy of feeling strange parts of us colliding: my soles on your undulating back, your chin nuzzling into my clavicle, your lips on the precipices of my hips. I want you spilled into me, forgetting yourself inside of me. I want to believe holding those pieces guards against how much I’ll miss you when real life demands work and responsibility.

I want to believe I could exhaust myself here on your body. That the words and the love and the lust and the energy could shut me down, cool me off, leave me not wanting so much. But it never happens. The words rise between us, like steam, again and again and again, no matter how many times it seems like we strained them all out.

The words rise and then, so do you. And I melt under the mechanics we cannot see. A puddle of awe, made from words. Words that came from wanting.

And the wanting that started because I miss you more than I can say.