Wishing

Glasgow. Knowing its topography was another fragment of home flaking and falling away. A flinty piece of Edinburgh sat in my pocket, too: the lighter one of the comedians gave me in the courtyard of Lord Bodo’s, the only one I hadn’t lost or left behind. Green plastic. I took it out now, stepping off the bus for a smoke break, the wind throwing the tails of my coat about and biting my skin. A headache squatted behind my eyes like a toad.

Yielding

I resisted as long as I could, but I’ve never been good at resisting. I could feel the press of her intent months back, before I left (before I came back), like an overwarm hand on the back of my neck. I kicked off my shoes in her bedroom that night resolving, ‘I will not have sex with her tonight, I will not’ –

That came back to me, hours later, when I left her flat in the early morning laughing, aching, loose-limbed. I waited for regret to come, prickling my heart, but it never did. I began to wonder instead why I’d wasted so much time refusing.

Kissing

Lean close. Flesh and flesh draw together. Hot. Tense. The air between lips is pregnant with something heavy, instinctual. Collision of breath. Moving towards. And then.

Touch, kiss, part, press, communion of warm soft skin. A sudden snarl and flame of want burns through like a match, lit. Control slips away and you never even feel it go.