I can’t write.
My senses are blurred. My fingers are numb. My eyes close on their own, indiferent to my conscious commands, while my head is filled with images.
I’m blocked by the poetic visions I’ll never be able to convey in writing:
The look on his face when we’re laying down, no glasses on.
The scarred texture of the skin on his back.
The awkwardness of his laughter.
The irony in his smiles.
The slight roughness in his voice.
The soft warmth of his breath.
The strength of his hands.
The smell of his head.
The way he twitches when I run my fingers through his belly.
The specific shade of blue in his eyes.