deep,
deeper,
deepest.
Like he’s still not close enough,
not far enough inside me.
And he kisses me harder,
presses up against me closer,
fuses me to him,
like we clicked back into place.
This is where we were always meant to be.
Whatever this is,
it doesn’t feel like the first time.
It doesn’t hit fresh, it hits deep,
unburying something familiar.
He grabs my hips,
turns me 'til my back hits his chest,
and his fingertips come over the side of my thigh.
Despite me,
my body flinches away from his touch.
I expect him to chase it. Or pull back.
Or—God—do anything but what he does.
Which is nothing.
His hand hangs there,
mid-air, frozen an inch from my skin,
waiting for me to come back to him.
And after a second,
then two,
I do.
I lean into his hand, his fingers brushing,
and his breath shudders out,
