We can’t be friends

We can’t be friends because of my hands.

They want to touch you, hold you, stroke you, caress you, cup you, palm you, roll you, open you up, and more.  And, my hands have fingers. You can imagine what they’d like to do to you.

you = drug (to me)

You are a drug to me.

I feel exponentially better when I’m with you, looking at you, talking to you, feeling you near me.

My troubles (and there are many) don’t seem so great and I think, no, I know, that all will somehow be OK. When we’re together I’m in a better pace, closer to my ideal. But I need your voice, your eyes, your laugh, your smile, and your touch to get me there. Like, well, a drug.

When we’re not together, I feel worse than when I didn’t know your particular brand of drug. My troubles are heavier,more dark. Our texting and phone calls just string me out, leave me feeling incrementally better  – but it’s nowhere near the same rush as seeing you, touching you, watching you, being with you.

you = drug. And you are not to be taken lightly, or with food. And I promise never to operate any sort of machinery (let alone heavy machinery) when I’m on you.