Sometimes, despite your reservations
and in contrast to your sanity,
when a man you've admired
squeezes your thigh as he helps you onto a horse,
and makes eye contact with you
as he strums the guitar,
and tells you he's been waiting for this since he was nineteen,
you have to **** him.

I miss your voice in my ears.
I miss your eyes on my eyes.
I miss your breath on my neck.