Sometimes I imagine my fingers reaching for your knee. How we will be sitting, side by side, our faces illuminated by the soft glow of lamps, hands and knees hidden in darkness beneath the lip of the bar. It will be a tentative gesture--part exploration and held breath and exposed wish. The first of many leaps.
Later, I think on how your hands will hook my waist. Strong and confident, driven by need and desire and a sweet sort of wanting. But how that'll come only after. Only after I've opened small gates to you. One after another after the next.
Because you will never take what's not already been given.
You are made of a thing I hardly know how to touch or place or name, but would like, very much—more than anything really—to taste.
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