Craving You

It’s 2:17 a.m. The fan hums lazily above, pushing warm air around a room that’s already sticky with restless wanting. I should be asleep — I should have silenced every thought of you by now — but instead, I’m here, mouth dry, skin warm, craving you in every corner of my mind.

Your voice is the echo I taste when I close my eyes — that low laugh, that secret softness that makes me ache in places I can’t name out loud. I replay the way your hands ghosted over my wrist that last time, how you lingered just long enough to set a fire under my skin, then left me with nothing but the memory to chew on.

I roll over, bury my face in the pillow, but it doesn’t help. Your name is there too — pulsing in the dark, a dare pressed against my tongue. My fingers curl into the sheet, useless, desperate. The night is too long when I crave you like this — when my body whispers come back, come back, though I know you won’t knock at my door tonight.

I want your teeth on my shoulder. I want your breath tangled in my hair. I want your secrets pressed into my mouth so hard I can’t remember who I was before you. It’s stupid — reckless — but maybe that’s what craving is: a sweet, unbearable madness that turns every heartbeat into your name.

Somewhere out there, maybe you’re awake too. Maybe you’re half-laughing, half-cursing my name under your breath. Maybe you’re craving me just enough to hate it. Maybe that’s enough to pull you here — across miles, across wrong decisions, across all the quiet promises we never said out loud.

Until then, I’ll lie here. Open. Waiting. Wanting. Craving you.

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