I met someone. Someone with whom I can’t seem to spend enough time without being left unsatisfied and craving more. He comes over most nights; we eat together and talk and laugh and discover an endless list of things we have in common; books we’ve read, albums we loved, films we watched.
The evenings end in my bedroom, the opposite side of my bed filled with his warmth. We talk, our fingers tracing patterns on each other, until our voices are slow and thick with languor. The time comes again and again, a warm comforting sleep seeps into our entangled bodies. He has to leave. Our goodbye is drawn out, sighs and bleary eyed kisses at my front door, our bodies heavy with sleep and contentment. He leaves in the dark, his coat pulled up tight against the damp November night.
I return to bed, the scene of our brief moments of happiness. I sleep with the other side of my bed still warmed from his body, the scent of us still faintly in the air.