letters to my lovers

The misery of absence

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Burying my face in the bodies of other lovers in my futile attempts to forget you. Giving them pieces of me that are undeniably meant for you. I only want to forget the sensation but you are embedded in my flesh. Embedded in the memory of me. I wear you. Taste you. Feel you. You are tormenting me whenever you are not here. The desire to be with my lover is growing but the desire is in vain. I am overwhelmed with the feelings of future dissatisfaction thinking about never having the chance to feel those lips. To kiss those lips. The infatuation with the lips of my lover is feeding more into this gut wrenching sensation. Why does the lover who moves the body in such ways deny the openness of more than just warm thighs? Why does it feel that nothing is ever reciprocated? I fall for you every chance that’s given and it’s involuntary, for I would have never decided to give myself in this way. For I would have never chosen to live this way. But I miss you. I can’t deny that. To have been able to have this effect on me I am finding it hard to still convince myself that maybe we shouldn’t be meeting like this. Running over the minutes laughing in between as if nothing else matters. I could be full of you and still be unable to reach satisfaction. I am obsessed, even all of you is not enough. What makes you envied is making me weak and I would rather find another way to live, another way to be.

I bite my lips in order to remain silenced, keeping fingers close in case I am unable to maintain, but I am still screaming out your name even in the presence of others.

Surely you want me back, lover. Because I still want you.

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