Sure, it would be wrong of us to wind up in a tangle of limbs and lips and handprints and hurt. It would be so, so wrong on so many counts. It’s one of those things that cannot happen.
But does that stop me from thinking about it? Does it stop me from wanting that? No. No, never. I see the way you look at me, I know exactly what you wish you could say when you bite your tongue; it’s so obvious. And fuck, man, I want it too. I’d do anything to watch this unfold with you.
I study your hands, and I envision them at work on my body. I watch your eyes catch fire in the middle of the stormiest afternoon when there’s no one around but us. I memorize your smile and your shoulders, and I peel away your layers with my imagination until we’re both stripped down to this ugly truth.
You and I are not of the pure-hearted, we’re not of the unwavering. We’re weak and we know it, and the want is so, so strong. So, so wrong. I ache for you now, every goddamn day, but this cannot happen. We cannot happen.
Fate is a cruel and merciless mistress who always carries one condition. She handed you to me as a masterpiece to cherish and admire and keep safe. But no matter what, I’m not allowed to touch.