Member-only story
Powerless in Your Hands
There was a heady wave called me longing for you.
Painted silhouettes dance in shadows on the wall as I move to the music playing on my CD player. The hum of a melody vibrates through me as I imagine what it would be like with you here — your hands on my hips, guiding me, your touch like barely contained liquid desire drawing me back again and again as a tide to the shore.
I tell myself it’s only a fantasy. But it’s hard to do when I dream of you at night as if I can’t be sated.
But the dreams are innocuous things. We sit and talk. We watch silent films. I put my head on your shoulder and sigh. You take my hand in yours and rub your fingertips against my knuckles. I know the bliss of a moment because you frequent my dreamland as if it were meant to be your second home.
They aren’t the fire I wish they were.
Since I can’t have you in the flesh, I wish I could know the heat of you in that faraway sphere. I wish my mind worked in that subtle way of passions igniting — but that’s not so. I am not like your other friends who burst at every hint of play and teasing and flirtation.
It gets maddening, watching you avoid me, but I know you’re saving yourself.
