Don’t get me wrong. I love how comfortably we exchange kisses when I step through the front door or when I rouse you in the middle of the night after a nightmare. I love the ease in which our tongues caress each other, and how you know exactly where to press your lips to make me moan. I love the familiarity of your body. The welcomeness. The warmth. Most of all, I love that I can look into your eyes, for only a fraction of a second, and tell whether you want to have sex or to cuddle or to be left completely alone.
But as much as I love what we’ve become, I still miss what we were. I miss the sexual tension that felt like fire between us. A fire we both wanted to reach out and touch, but wouldn’t, because we were terrified of moving too fast and extinguishing the blaze.
The next time we watch a film on the couch, I don’t want to rest my head on your lap like I usually do. I want to take a trip to the past. I want to feel the heat rise to my cheeks, because you’re sitting a little too close to me, with your arm grazing mine. And when you finally get the courage to reach over and grab my hand, I want to feel that heat travel down to my thighs. A feeling just as intense as if you were actually kissing me.
Then I want you to glance over at me and ask me a question about the movie, something that proves you haven’t been paying anymore attention to it than I have, because you’re distracted by how close we’ve become. But I want you to trail off in the middle of your sentence, just like you used to, because you got distracted looking at my lips and couldn’t stop thinking about all of the things you wanted to do to me.
I want there to be a moment of hesitation, one where we’re both ready for what’s coming, but aren’t sure who’s going to make the move. Then I want you to take one last look at my lips, flick your eyes back up with a hint of a smile, and pin your mouth against mine.
After the first kiss, a short one to test the waters, I want you to pull back, like it’s all over. Then I want you to think, “To hell with it,” and grab me again, hard. This time, it’s not chaste. This time, you’ll use your tongue. This time, you’ll use your hands. Your fingers will skate through my hair, and then travel downward until your nails are digging into my hips. After a few minutes of making out, of engulfing my heart and soul, you’ll feel comfortable enough to reach a hand under my shirt.
Pretty soon, all of our clothing will come off. You’ll kiss every body part that’s revealed, one by one, like I’m the most remarkable thing you’ve ever laid eyes on. Then you’ll murmur something about how beautiful I am and how you can’t believe you got a goddess like me in bed with you. I’ll feel like I’m floating, like you’ve breathed extra air in me.
Once we’re done trading compliments and realize we need more than kisses to fuel our lust, I want you to fuck me like you kissed me, like we’re complete strangers. But after you do, I want to slide back into the ritual we’ve created together. I want you to cuddle with me until we both fall asleep and whisper about how much you’ll always love me. I want you to wake me up with the smell of bacon and coffee, and then I want you to send me texts littered with emojis while you’re stuck at work.
After our one night of living in the past, I want us to return to the present, because I’m glad you’re no longer a stranger. I’m glad I know you inside and out, and I’m glad that I get to call you mine. I never want that to change.