May 3, 2013

What distance has done to me is make it so that in the time I get to spend with you, I can’t get rid of all my missing you, I can’t stop feeling your absence, I can’t seem to get close enough to you to prove to myself that you’re near, that I don’t have to miss you now. I keep missing you when you sit right next to me and that’s why I press my lips so hard against yours, just to make sure you’re still there. That’s why I climb on top of you and get rid of any space that separates our bodies, even though we just had sex. It’s not a sex thing, it’s an insatiable longing  to be near you that never ever goes away and sometimes it eats at me until I force myself on you, grab your thigh suddenly, feel out every detail of your face with my fingertips even though I know you hate that. In all those moments you catch me staring a little too intensely at you (not exactly “catching” it, because it’s too obvious to miss) I’m memorizing the shape, size, and placement of every single freckle on your face, the little creases in your lip, the pattern the hair on the back of your neck grows in. I’m keeping time to the beating of your lashes, making note of what you look like when you sniffle, committing to memory how you execute every movement so that in your absence, when I no longer have that indulgence, I can take solace in your not so distant memory. Not any specific memory, because those can lose their vitality with too much use. The ones I covet are the ones that never die, the ones that hold your very lifeblood. Sometimes those sorts of memories are only felt within the feeling of closeness. So I get closer, closer, closer.