i can imagine her hands in my hair.

i think, often, about december. about what might come.

about whether or not we will be together, again.

my mind goes through situations of what might happen.

of the first time happening all over again.

on whether we would be rushed, moving more from that innate animal in us that just needs to feel and taste and smell and move and needs that person, that weight, and good god that pressure.

whether we would be blinded and fast and hurling ourselves together toward some cliff far away, knowing that next time would be slower, next time would be more intense, next time would be more careful.

this time's just to get the edge off.

or whether i could manage to take my time. whether she would let me take my time.

if we would be playful and slow, remembering how we react to this touch and finding that spot along her collarbone that makes her dig her fingers into my side.

part of me wants to take an hour to unbutton her shirt. i want to spend time focusing in on her skin, on each new inch revealed in the loss of another button. i want to imprint it all, carefully and closely, onto my heart, my lips, my fingertips.

and then there's that last part of me that wonders if i'm overthinking what might happen when the truth of it all is nothing might happen.

we might be able to resist each other.

i might find myself ignoring her smells.

i really doubt it, i doubt that if she presented me with the opportunity i wouldn't politely excuse us from our present company and drive, quickly but safely, back to my apartment, lead her back to my bedroom, and delve.