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Satisfaction

Thinking back to when I asked why me, why you cared about me, and you said you didn’t know. You just did. There was something about me, right? And then I remember when you asked me to be yours and you said something akin to: why not?

Maybe our lips fit well and maybe my body is warm and your hands are familiar, but your answers never satisfy me.

I think it’s because we’re conditioned. I’m a “pretty face” and I am warm. You like how I talk and how I seem to float everywhere and you like my laugh. I like your smile and your confidence and your carefree way of just living. But there are no butterflies in my stomach and my heart doesn’t race unless your skin is on mine.

I want to ask you “why me” again but the answer will be the same and I will know it’s only because the conditioning. You know that there are expectations to be with someone and you’re okay with how I feel in your arms and the space I take up so you’re not alone. I like the way you feel against my lips and it’s more comforting than anything really to know I don’t have to meet anyone new. Or just realize there are other people there. Other men.

Except I don’t have butterflies in my stomach and my heart doesn’t race. Except you still don’t know and, God, I want someone to know. I want someone to know it’s because of my smile or the way I laugh. It’s the way I hide behind my glasses and their curiosity stirs when they look at me.

I’m not sure how much longer I want to be unsatisfied.

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