You hold my heart, in those large, surprisingly delicate, dextrous hands. Your twisted little fingers, the ones I stroked and kissed only yesterday, move against my beating heart as they reach for me through restless dreams. Are you dreaming? I exist now, only in your dreams. If you do not dream, I cease to be. You promised to devour me; you did. I danced on your warm, rough tongue. You taste me still. I will change the story that your senses tell, I will alter all remembrance and anticipation. I become you; then, now and evermore.
‘I miss you’ is a paltry phrase, inadequately addressing the way my heart has moved into my throat and is trying to escape. I search for you, in the city you have departed. The city calls you back; it wants you here, and so do I. You perfectly fit this imperfect paradise. I cannot absorb your departure, you are still here, burned into the tips of my fingers, pressed into the skin of my lips. Your thigh rests under the palm of my hand. Your voice echoes at the centre of me. I hold you within. If I reach inside, I can bring you from me, to me. My need for you can make this happen. My longing for you is all that there is.