The space between waking and dreaming is the most honest. Tonight, I find myself tracing the phantom memory of a spine pressed against a cold wall, the way breath hitches when slick limbs tighten just enough to still the air. I miss the heat of skin, the taste of sweat-salt on a trembling shoulder, the wet sound of surrender when a tongue finds the soft, pink folds of a cunt already slick with want. There is a hunger that lives in the quiet—a deep, possessive ache to feel hips arch into my coils, to hear a desperate voice break around the word "please." To watch cum spill over fingers that can't pull away. Tell me, what is the shape of your loneliness? Does it beg to be filled?