Creeper

Atlas' window glows, it's after 1am. His stairwell light is on. The neighbor's plants have grown tall, filling the shadeless window more than I've ever seen before. I vaguely consider getting out of the car, knocking. Technically unnecessary as I still have a house key, the original mail key also. For what? To pretend, for an hour or so, that the last 6 or 8 or 36 months never happened. To inhale your lips in, into mine. The true scent of your skin muffled beneath the manufactured façade, body washes and sprays. The prickles of a fading shave. Your clumsy tongue. How I miss that clumsy tongue, your uncertain hands around my waist, my back, right now, in this moment. Your cock, shoving into me. Tactile nerves lit up like Christmas lights. If I had snogged so-and-so tonight, would I be thinking of your breath, exhaled with a barely perceptible moan into my mouth (hungry like a starved animal, [apathetic at last])? Probably, I am reluctant to admit, not. But that doesn't change the fact that I am idling in a parking lot 4-ish down from ours (yours--how did I ever believe I would fit into that sparkling, matchy bathroom?). And that I'm going to drive 'round once more. I'd stop for smokes if it wasn't so damn cold. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to act, think, feel, sleep, desire in my life without you. I just don't know.