before

In the before times. In memory. In bed, lying face to face and should be sleeping but can't. The race of a heartbeat. The breasts that feel so taut and full that they might rise off my chest like dough that has been left too long. I remember my breasts most of all, the ache in them, and wanting your hand on them, the little reach, the fingers kneading, the nip of teeth. Now as it was then. still fresh. still making my nipples hard and tight to think of it.

Will this ever go away? This longing for a distant past? This flesh knowledge? Wet. I become wet when I think of it for any length of time. I do not become wet for other memories. I save this for you.

They ask about obsession and I remember. Distant past that might have been last week or the one before. You do not leave me. I return to you. Will this be forever? Is this single train of thought a faithlessness when the one I love is here and tangible and cared for?

You are a symbol of yourself. This is not a hat. This is not a pipe. This is not you, this is me and the memory I drag up over and over. This is you worn smooth and turned into the thing I want of you. This is me, my orgasm, my orgasms. Over and over without much effort. Minimum effort. Maximum result.