Desperate.

Tonight I organized all of my underwear by the potential preferences of any potential suitors, of which there are currently none. You know, boy short, tanga, g-string, thong, bikini and so on and so forth. It's good to be prepared in case I happen upon a candidate, who at this point only need be mildly attractive because right about now I would do it for the chase. That feeling of my stomach dropping to the floor when our eyes meet, for that urgent ache of anticipation, even for the awkward silence I'll pretend is anything but when it's all over.

I'd kill, I'd beg, I'd pay to feel like I did three years ago. And maybe it is strange to still dream of him, to remember what he felt like so clearly. But, I do.