You’re the perfect piece of art, trapped behind glass. I can see you. I can hear you.

But I can’t touch you.

No matter how perfectly the memory of your skin lingers on my fingers. Nor can I taste you, despite how your taste sits in my mouth.

Your skin is ingrained in my body to the point where if I close my eyes, the phantom of you fucks me slowly—next to me, under me, on top of me.

I came inside you. And now that memory aches.

I will again. Mouth. Cunt. Ass.

When you come home.