I'm not torn.
I'm not weighing my options.
I'm saturated in a mix of sticky-sweet feelings that are gnawing at my bones.
I can't stop thinking about his hands on my hips, my back, my arms. Every single time he touched me, he lingered. I hate admitting this, but it was sweet. His entire body seemed to be at war each time our hands met - his aggressive, mine awkwardly unsure. Words were useless, stupid, heavy things between us. He tried his best to press the letters against my skin, burning them into my hands as warning bells shrieked red in our super nervous systems. I saw the longing on his face. He didn't even try to hide it from me.
The second he put his lips on my neck, my skin exploded in goosebumps. He was flirting with the boundaries, alcohol cheering him on as we basked in the wild, 10-second ride of belonging to each other. "I want you. I know you have a boyfriend. Right now, I don't care. I am attracted to you. I can't help myself. I have to have you."
He spoke in touch and I understood every single goddamned word.
My friends circled like sharks. He refused to go any further than kissing the back of my neck; no blood was shed. The sharks stayed stagnant, yet dutifully protective of me. Cocktail poison sped through my blood, mixing haphazardly with the rushed high of being able to communicate in a totally unjustified language. I was wild with want. I hated it. I loved it. I missed it.
In two days, I have scheduled a meeting to pour every sensation from this experience into a bowl, crush it into bits and bury it away for my own sake.
I can't wage a war against myself for one person.
I won't do it.
