#in the tiniest pub in london

The thing about denial is that it’s mutual. 

And as much as you give me those eyes, that’s the part I think you’re a little too distracted to ever quite understand. That I want to give the release as much as you want to feel it, but I’m hanging on by the whites of my knuckles because I know that each second of frustration will be paid back tenfold. So I push, and I wait, until frustration tumbles into desperation, and you stop looking at me because you can’t really control where you look any more. You’re just balled fists and an undulating body that is rolling to a brand new time signature. 

Except you can disregard that sentiment, at least in part. Because we’re not really in this together, as much as I might romanticise the idea. Yes, I’m as turned on as you are. Yes, I want to see you spill over into ecstasy almost as much as you do, and yes, I’m pushing you until you start to creak and crack because it’s worth it, all that, because of what happens afterwards. But the secret (not so secret), is that I get to enjoy you the whole time. 

It’s its own little climax, seeing you like this. A reduction of a person, blown way out of proportion. You, seen through the reverse end of a binocular, filling up the landscape with the beautiful swell of your personality, expressed without vocabulary beyond four letter words and solitary vowels, and all the body language required to create a whole new dictionary filled with slowly sliding arms, arched backs and shuddering hips. 

I can drink it all in, every drop, swallow an ocean of you, from the moment I start until the moment I let you fall, be consumed by yourself, drowned in it. It feels like I can get a handle on you, as a human being, and all that that entails, in that stretched, escalating yawn of time. Not necessarily know you, in the sense that anyone can known anyone else, but more get the sensation. Feel your personality brush against my palm, so that I could almost grasp it. 

We all have our own little distractions.