My fingers are tingling and I would like to touch you. Not to kiss you, not to fuck you, but to pull my fingers through the air between us and watch them fall slowly down your face. To feel the light on your skin, new as the day, strong as your eyes when you look up with that half-seductive grin on your face (you will never give up no matter how much I throw back at you). A touch with water in the place of fire, magic instead of lust.

In spite of all this I am still paralyzed. Will you break the moment when it comes, sucking the life from it before its time? This is not what I want, not at all. Sometimes your breath chills me when I pass, sometimes it warms me. No in between. Perhaps I will forever hold on to the air between us, looking, smiling, never reaching. Not so bad really, when I think of the alternative.

You come to me after the show, telling me I move like a cool breeze, that you want me. Want, so...possessive. This is nothing new to you, but it catches me off guard. Would I turn away if you touched me first? Maybe I would. Then again, I never knew you anyway.

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