I’m thinking about you. I want to see you. I miss you. Keep spending my time imagining you, talking to you about all the things I want to know about you, all the things I want you to know about me, that make me proud and maybe could make you fall in Love with me. 

I almost know your how your kiss tastes, how soft your lips are when I bite them, how warm your breath feels on my Neck, how we look each other deep into the eyes when we are making love, how I moaned the first time you got inside me and how complete I felt. It’s silly how I always wish you were right here so I could touch you accidentally, how badly I want to run my fingers through your hair, slowly with my nails lightly scratching your sculpt, until it reaches the base of your neck (that neck that deserves so much biting). 

I’m a hot mug that craves to be tightly hugged by your delicate hands, ready to share all the warmth hidden inside me. You know, love is consuming someone else’s mystique, digging holes into their existence, wanting to know all, needing to merge, longing to dissolve. 

Sometimes I think I really like you, other times I think it’s just in my imagination. Only now I know it’s real. Only if this is read it is true.