I don’t miss fucking you.
I fucking miss you.
One day, you sit in a park with this beautiful boy at night and he touches your thighs, not because he wants something more but because he needs to feel you and there isn’t anything sexual in it. Just his palm resting on your skin. And suddenly you find his arms on your back, stroking it, writing his love on you through your shirt and you don’t even wish your clothes weren’t there. It’s more than enough. And he holds you close and rests his head on your shoulder and he mumbles your name onto your neck and you just sigh because you haven’t been this happy since forever. And you’re slightly drunk and your faces are so close that you whisper your words into each other’s mouths. And you can’t look away because the alcohol in your veins made everything so blurry but his eyes. You can only see his eyes clearly. And when he finally kisses you, you close your eyes and you try to put everything that’s left of you into that kiss and you hope that it will be enough, that he will understand that it wasn’t the alcohol that made him feel dizzy. He will.