His hands were the first to touch me after yours. They were strong, but they weren’t aggressive, they were steady. Quiet and soft, yours were always unsure.
I think about the way his fingers grazed the sides of my waist when he was kissing my neck, while yours would barely touch an inch of my flesh, as if you were afraid to break me.
I can still remember the sweet nothings you’d whisper into my ear and the way you’d press your lips against mine but it never felt like you meant it.
For months after you, I don’t know why, but I didn’t want to be touched by anyone else. I craved your hands, and late at night I’d be staring out my window, asking the moon for answers on whether or not I should dial your number.
But I didn’t. I still think about you often, because I still love you. But the reason I am tangled in his sheets and my clothes are on his floor is because he made me feel like someone wanted me, and that is something you could never do.
I’m not sorry, delicatevoids (via wordsnquotes)
Source: wnq-writers.com
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