My sheets smell like you. I want to lay pressing you into the bed, bury my face in your neck and breathe you in. I'll trace your collarbone with my lips and pull you close by your belt loops. I could drift away into your scent and live there, tucked away.

During the day i think of you in passing. I'll think of you when I see your favourite colours and take photos of things I want to show you, but there are things to be done. It's at night when it really gets me. Desire. And the guilt. Either might swallow me whole. In the dark I can think of you without consequences. My mind starts to wander and your figure takes a life of its own behind my eyelids. I don't have to wonder about this apparition, I know what he likes. She shows me, takes his time. I think she likes when I watch.

Sometimes he follows me into my dreams, and I wake thinking of you, wondering if we had sought each other out as we slept. I would ask, but then I would have to explain, and chances are you don't have the same sins to confess come morning. The guilt stains my hands no matter how many times I wash them.

I miss you and I want you badly. I wish I was allowed to want you the way I do.

Come lay with me. I crave your body pressed to mine, and the hunger when we feel things we don't talk about. I can't touch you the way I want to, so I stroke your arm in a way that pretends it's something else. You pull me as close as you can physically manage. I bury my face in your neck and tangle my hands in your hair and pretend I can't feel your heart beating out of your chest, or hear the way your breath hitches when I trace your spine with my fingers. I want to be selfish. I want to worship you and ruin you and hold you gently in my bed. I'll count the moles on your back and braid your hair, and you can read my poetry.