My hands still get greedy for you. They ache, in tight fists, and I stretch my fingers as I remember touching your body. The feel of your skin, all the places you were soft and all the places you were tender. The way it was hard to make you come, but easy to make you cry.
Sleepless night with you to blame. I write and I write, but the ink of your memory never seems to run dry. All the bee-stung lipped girls with their perfectly winged eyeliner and the deliciously thick thighs.
I miss your desperation. I miss the tension between us. The drug that was your obvious crush on me. I miss your chapped lips and wrinkled clothes and your eagerness. The way you couldn’t hide what you wanted, even when you were the one telling me you couldn’t have it anymore.
It’s silly. It was a fleeting little tryst. It was an affair. It was nothing.
I wish you the best in the life you’ve made. A big backyard and being far away from the pains that the city brought. Still, my hands get greedy and I wonder if I could have ruined it all. Would it have been worth it? To sink into you again, raw and wet with you, and hear all those sounds that now keep me tossing and turning and hungry.
I wonder would I have, but also could I have? Ruin what you have now. Ruin you. That would be something indeed.
I keep all that greed locked away, because it is a battery. It keeps me going when I stay up too late typing, better than coffee or whiskey ever did and fuck I am forever grateful for that.
But would I give that up, too? To go down on you again and feel you pull my hair. Those moments when I felt your greed well up and overtake you. That summer when we were both greedy and perfect. That summer that is gone forever except a hand full of pictures and the ache of remembering.
My hands still get greedy for you.