I started thinking of his voice a moment ago, how it is deep and gentle and growling (I imagine he fucks the way he speaks), his half whispers, and how erotic he sounds. When I speak to him, he stares at me, the way I imagine the way it feels when I speak to someone, because I stare, too, fixated and isolated in that moment, that person. I haven't really talked to him in over a month, but something of his caught me in consciousness just now, and I still remember the way he strikes me, the way I feel wet when he laughs, the way it feels to kiss him, his mouth at once both asleep and hungry, and it is dreamlike, his quiet poetry.

But for some reason, I always feel off around him, I cannot show him the recognition I feel, how we are the same. Sometimes I bring up the past things that have happened that made me feel that way, but he has such a bad memory, he never knows what I'm talking about. I don't feel comforted by this, because I think, he must remember these things subconsciously, gathering up the pieces to construct his image of me, my irrational presence in his mind. Maybe I feel off because I'm nervous, because I like him. Men pretend that they pay less attention to things than women do, but I think it is the same, only in different ways. Women pay attention to what they're paying attention to, they can pick it out and point at it, draw their attention to its particle and swirl around it like electrons (I wonder if the relationship electrons have to the nucleus is similar to human relationships, being pulled in by someone's gravity, by attraction at some level, but yet keeping distance like buoyancy, needing to feel that separateness, unlike the protons which are kept inside, taken in as siblings).

Men feel more, trust more. Woman need to know. (I am of COURSE generalizing- by women I only mean myself, by men I mean those in my immediate memory. I've felt such a hostility towards men lately, I feel disillusioned and distanced from them. Maybe poeticizing like this will help me to get over it.)

I feel at home only when he kisses me, when he pulls me to him and laughs, and I feel safe within the world of his aggression. I think of the way of his touch, of his hands, how soft and delicate his fingers are, like the skin on the penis. And I think of the way he moves when I reach between his legs, his eagerness/surprise that I have touched him, and the relief once he enters my mouth, how he falls/sinks into me. I think of his sighs like moans because they have some of that heavy sound within them (it is the same way I sigh and moan, breath-full and breathless, voice-full and voiceless, choking on the flooding and bursting- water can be so so powerful- of noise behind my tonsils).

I think of him having an orgasm in my mouth, and the thought alone ignites me. I like imagining the way it must feel for a man, to have my lips wrapped around him, inching him down my throat, because it feels good there, the way it makes my eyes water, half-gagging, choking down my words, my moans, my screams. And when he comes, feeling the vein on the top of his penis contracting, feeling the sudden tidal of warmth in my mouth, in my throat, in my belly, and hearing his sudden scream when it bursts out of him, the urgency of it, as if he had just given birth, to desire manifested, and what I miss with my mouth I spread all over myself and wear it as a skin. I remember taking it once more all the way into my mouth, and then looking up at him, and he smiled at me in this way that looked so surprised. I smiled back and crawled under his arms and he kissed me, tasting himself, and then nibbled on my nose, teasing me.

How I miss that voice.