Anxiety trembles in my chest at these thoughts. These thoughts that are warm and soft, how they make my mind pliant, allowing for it to be stretched with imagination and fantasy.
Sometimes, more than missing him, I miss the loss of what never will be. I miss the laughs and smiles, and embraces. The wind against my skin, the solidity of his body pressed close to mine. Words that will never be said.
I miss when I am not missed.
I crave what is not craved of me and that makes the desire stronger.
For a connection to build up naturally, sweetly until it encompasses us both. For honey to touch the tips of our tongues and roll down the backs of our throats and slowly fill us up with warmth and sugar.
Even as these thoughts flow through my mind and press down hard like storm winds beating upon the blades of grass in an open field, like that field these hopes these wants fantasies are empty. And what follows is an aching reminiscence of things that never were, of things that will never be.


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