You are not mine to think about, but I still do.
I think about the way your body might feel between my knees or my palms; the way your face might look as I hover over or under you; the way your skin might smell in the darkness of midnight or in the late afternoon sun. I think about your mouth pressed against my spine in the dark. I think about your eyes closing as I kiss you. I think about how kind and brutal your lips would be to every inch of my skin.
I think about the simple things, too. I think about Sunday morning breakfast, and reading poetry out loud on Saturday nights while drinking whiskey by a fire, or the way you might look on a cold walk to nowhere in the middle of a December afternoon. I think about afternoons by the ocean, your palm pressed against mine, and the way the sea salt would smell in your hair as we fell asleep that night.
One moment we are eating olives and cheese from deli containers in the middle of Central Park on an early May afternoon, laying stomach down on a thin red blanket, reading books and watching people compete to be as in love as we are and the next moment my fingers are learning the way your skull becomes your neck, becomes your back, becomes the tender skin on the back of your thighs.
You are not mine to think about, but I still do—still know the way I would hold your fingers against my lips, my ribs, my hips, my heart if I ever got the chance.