”I guess the only other shitty part about sexting, besides the no real sex, is that you can’t cuddle after.”
No “good morning” text after such an event feels like watching your situationship try to sneak out without waking you—opening your eyes, eye-level-blurry-eyed to the buttoning of jeans.
The connection confuses me—one moment seemingly significant, then one of us a ghost.
Cyclical.
Only our voices touch and intertwine. I sing snippets, you layer me below.
Then you cry.
I cry too—not for you, not because of you, and not due to you.