I’m thinking of you.
Most of the time, when I think about you, you’re naked. But in my head, you’re dressed today.
I miss sitting on your lap and kissing your sweet face. I miss pulling off your shirt–the way you lift your arms and let me strip you, the way you let your hands fall limp at your sides, waiting for me to make a move.
I miss needing to touch your skin so fucking much that if I don’t pull your shirt off right now, I might die of wanting.