wanting

It’s embarrassing sometimes.

How often the wanting shows. So often does it reveal itself as desperation, and in a way, it is.

I want someone to take my wrists and place seeding kisses onto my palms so their love may grow blossoms from my fingertips.

I want someone’s soft voice to lure me to sleep, to speak to me in whispered melodies as we conversate.

I just want to have slow, early mornings with freshly brewed coffee and bagels.

I want to feel their passion rush over me like a brook does on pebbles.

I have gotten so good at being alone, until I remember what it feels like to be loved intimately, and I am aching all over again with the wanting.

Then I am calling a boy who wants nothing more than the curve of my waist to come over.

he does, and he takes my wrists and plants seeding kisses into my palms and his lust blossoms from the tips of my toes as they curl beneath his weight.

his voice in my ear and my fingers in his hair.

In ways, the wanting is desperation.

it is embarrassing.