Hunger for You

Sometimes I think the worst part isn’t how recklessly I want you — it’s how recklessly you want me back.

We tried to be careful, once. We told ourselves it was just a spark — a one-time burn we’d snuff out before it set our lives on fire. But now, I see it in the way you look at me across crowded rooms, your fingers drumming on your glass like you’d rather be tracing lines down my spine.

We’re reckless in small ways first: a text that should never be sent, a hand on my back that lingers too long when no one’s watching. Then we’re reckless in bigger ways — shadows tangled in the stairwell at 2 a.m., your mouth at my throat while I try not to make a sound.

You’re bolder than I ever thought you’d be. You press me into walls like the hallway is ours alone, you bite my shoulder just to see me gasp, your breath hot in my ear as you whisper all the filthy promises you’ll make true when we’re finally alone again.

And I let you. God, I let you. Because hunger like this doesn’t care about consequences. It doesn’t care about vows, or closed doors, or the warning bells screaming in my head that say this will ruin you.

Some nights we make it to my place — the door half-closed, clothes dropped like breadcrumbs across the floor. You taste different every time: sharper when you’re jealous, sweeter when you’re sorry. You leave marks I have to hide in the daylight, half-ashamed, half-thrilled that you want to claim me where no one else can see.

I tell myself I’m still in control — that I can stop this if I really try. But when you’re above me, your teeth on my lip, your voice raw and desperate in the dark, I know I’m lying.

This isn’t a craving I’ll ever starve out. It’s something bigger. Wilder. The kind of hunger that devours the world around it, leaves nothing but the two of us, shaking and breathless in its wake.

Sometimes, when we’re both coming down from it — skin flushed, hearts unsteady — you look at me like you’re about to say something real. Something soft and terrifying. But you don’t. You just press your mouth to mine again, feeding that endless want until words don’t matter.

So here we are — half shadows, half secrets — pretending we’ll stop tomorrow. But tomorrow never comes. And tonight, I am starving again. For your hands. For your mouth. For the ruin I begged for the first time you whispered my name like a promise.

Because I’d let this hunger eat me alive if it meant you’d stay.

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