Why do you have to be you? Isn’t it enough that since you’ve opened up to me I’ve seen you differently? Isn’t it enough that I am taken and these thoughts about you are wrong, just for that?

But no.  You have to be you.  The person I should never look at that way.  I shouldn’t be noticing the changes in you recently.  The way your back and shoulders move as you run upstairs.  I should not be staring at the spot where your neck meets your shoulder,  daydreaming about grazing my teeth over that skin… Or gently biting down there as I come.

Nor should I be staring at how your body moves as you walk past me.  Every single time.  You don’t see it, you say; but I’m looking.

My heart shouldn’t race when you stand a bit too close to where I’m sitting.  When I could so easily just turn my head and let my lips work softly down your side, tracing your hips,  so close to wear they really want to be.

I shouldn’t find myself fighting the urge to let my lips linger on your earlobe as we share a slightly-too-tight goodbye hug.

Those unspoken words and knowing looks we share in a crowded room shouldn’t haunt me when I’m alone in the dark. Holding my breath and biting my lip so I can’t whisper your name at the final moment.  Because it’s wrong.  It can’t be you.

But it is. It is you.  It’s you as I lay on my front, face in the pillow hoping no one can hear, wishing my fingers were yours.

You are dangerous and addictive. And you.