Afterthoughts.

“Fuck me like you miss me.”

“But I don’t miss you, I only miss fucking you.”

I miss the way you knew my body, knew just how to make me squirm, and melt.

I miss the warmth… the intensity. The precise way that my body folded against yours.

The way you held me, restrained me. The way you teased me, mounting pressure, before release.

I miss your hands, your fingers… On me, inside of me. I miss your mouth, your tongue, the way you gladly kissed whichever lips you pleased.

I miss the messes we used to make. Waterfalls from whatever perch you’d place me. And of course, the way you’d clean me up.

I miss the rounds after rounds we’d go, nights, turned day, and still wanting to play. I miss being wrapped up in you, and you wrapped up in me.

I miss your body, how slowly you let me explore. How you swelled for me, an obvious wetness, I couldn’t ignore.

But I don’t miss you. So, I can’t fuck you like I miss you… and fucking you now, would pale in comparison to what was.

I do not feel you as I once did, Love. I do not see you as I once did.

Where you used to be a home for me, a safe space.. There are now only memories marred by oversight. You said you loved me, but perhaps it was the thought of loving me. Perhaps you loved the feeling, the idea of being loved. Or maybe… just maybe, you only loved fucking me.