6 Jul 2016

Wisps of Distraction.

This burning desire to come over to your desk and reach for your hand is consuming me. 

I remember what your fingers felt like from last night; each slender digit wrapped itself in the warmth of each of mine, each tip feeling like a little icicle that I managed to melt. While the sentences were scattering before you could form them in your mind, your lips whispered my name over and over again, like a holy chant that held the secret to your sanity. 

I can still hear your husky voice enunciating my name, each syllable dripping like honey off your tongue. And the recap is driving me crazy. 

For the first time, I wish you didn’t sit across the cubicle from me; the thought that you are right here, within a stride’s distance and I cannot come over and nip at the nape of your neck is killing me. The skin on my arms erupts in goosebumps when I hear your chair creak and the air-conditioning has nothing to do with it. I know.

At this rate, I am going to get in trouble because of all the work I’m managing not to do; I suspect my heart already is in the mire of your whims and I do not know how to extricate it from there. My mind too is already busy circling you like a moth just before being drawn to the flame – knowledge that only certain destruction can be the result of this obsession had dawned the moment we locked gazes, but I can’t help myself, can I?

No one ever can.

I hear you sigh, a subdued noise rooted in frustration; your code is not working, is it? I know the feeling, love. You are as distracted as I am, aren’t you? I hope you are, two more hours in this state of inaction before I get you home and make you feel things that neither of our men will ever be capable of.