I’m not feeling sultry or mysterious or particularly clever, and fantasizing about tongues and cocks and clits just isn’t filling up that absence of you today.
What I really want is your mouth on my forehead, the world’s softest kiss.
I want you to reach for my hand when we’re walking side by side down Piccadilly, because you’re 2% afraid I’ll stumble on a walk I’ve made for years and get swallowed by the world’s slowest black cab army, or maybe because you think you can handle telling just these strangers on the street in your own quiet way, “Look at her; she’s mine.” In any case, my fingers tighten between yours like a vice, because. Well.
I’ve missed you.
And yeah, I’ve survived this time by willing my hand to become your hand, pulling on my hair every time my back arches from the sheets, but all I can seem to hunger for today is the soft, deft parting of my hair into strands to be carefully, awe-struck-edly plaited.
It’s the little ways you worship me I’m craving.
I want your arm tucked around my hip, huddling me with you inside your coat on the frigid platform at Earl’s Court, exposed to the most stardusty snowdrifts the world has ever seen. I want to smell smoke from your little cancer sticks and look up and see little bits of moonlight in the flecks of ice that have been rescued from dashing to the ground by your beard, by your eyelashes.
I want to see the rush of blood that races to your cheeks as you catch me staring at you like artwork, because to me you are—you are so beautiful, and I know if I say so you’ll melt more into yourself, so instead I stand on my toes and kiss just the tip of your nose.
No one is there to carress you. To be gentle with you. To just watch the blessing of you breathing and be grateful; to wonder if Something exists, since Something must have existed to have given them this Person.
So much of my life has been spent making it possible to sprint soaked through the park just ahead of you, to sneak a squinty smile at you from across the room, so forgive me for my simplicity, for enjoying even the awful things. I’m so sorry. To me they are gold.
The ridges of your pinky finger catching grease from a motor.
The backwards curl of your hair in the morning where it’s starting to thin in a sort of piratey way.
The quick deflection of my adoration with humour that slowly gives way to an acquiescence—a toleration—of being cared for, desperately.
Gold.
Obviously, I want you. But I want you in so many ways beyond having you inside me. I want you beside me and around me and near me and if I’d gladly take any of them. I just want to be with you, and see and smell and hear and feel you *with* me.
You must know it isn’t just thirst. It’s… silence. Space. This gaping pit that needs you to fill it up.
(And yeah, that sounds sluttier than I intended.)
I just. Love you. Is all.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/jw0xan/i_want_to_hold_your_motherfucking_hand_saying_it
Quite beautifully put.