Left, left, left, left... A familiar face.
It wasn't you, but your thought floated down to my eyes. Your gentle brown eyes, your funny nose and hair, those weird dimple-things when you smile, then I dreamed of all the exchanges that never were. Tormented by the millions of words we shared, but not one single touch, your lips were never even close to mine, your hands never caressed my naked body, and never will. Between us, only words and pictures got intertwined in the realms of a universe that is real, but not quite.
Your skinny self hasn't been within my skull in a long time, and even now, after such a long time, I wonder what could have been and tore myself between regret and not. Who can ever know if any is ever right or wrong?
I wonder how things would have been, and I still want you, only to fulfil a desire though, don't get me wrong. We had our share of tricky things, even if nothing really happened, so this new bunch of words for you, are just about sex.
Sex. On your balcony.
It's about having drunk more that day around the fancy streets that feel like it's not Berlin anymore. About having leaned a bit closer, about keeping the gaze, so much tension in such subtle moments. About having sat on the edge as you'd get closer. About having grabbed you with my legs to pull you in. About the dream of that initiating kiss that never was. About what would have started then with your arms around my waist, with mine on your neck, sitting on the edge of the roof floor balcony, quite a spectacle. About having taken your clothes off slowly, feeling each millimetre of your skin with my naked fingers, about having you leaning over to undress me and kissed my neck.
This is about what comes after, when we'd both been naked, covered in fluids, craving more, having run inside to get further on. This is about you sliding into me, and looking at me with the face they all do and having said what they all do: some version of "why does this feel so good?"
This is about having eaten that fancy soup you started to cook after, instead of having run away. About that one encounter that never was and these weird tormented memories of dissatisfaction and crave pulsating and making me wet, even now.
This is about having woken up the next morning and knowing you'd have made breakfast for us, we'd have laughed and touched and showered, and spent the day between the balcony, the kitchen and the bed, again.
This is about idealising you by now, this was only about sex.
Just that one, far away time. You and I wouldn't have worked, but men we wanted us bad. This is still just about sex, Andrew.