If I go to him, I’ll just compare every ounce of his being, every particle of the us we would be, to you. You will be that esteemed model, the paragon, the epitome of my desire. But he will never be you. He’ll be different; possibly, probably better for me. But I won’t care. He won’t be you. He’ll do everything right, except that he won’t be you. He’ll be exactly what I need, except that dose of you. He’ll be nothing but a perfect, useless nicotine patch I’ll rip off after a few uses. I’ll quickly go running back to that dark pleasure. I’ll be begging for another taste of your silky self. I’ll return to taking you in, to breathing you in.
And then I’ll be back where I never want to return, yet where I always want to be.
(thefishstillswims)
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