Post-orgasmic stomachache rising through my throat- full of distaste-

I have no qualms with self-love, but I am aching each night regardless.

I miss skin-on-skin and the force. Chills and sweaty-backed fantasies of being held, post-coitus. Opening my clenched eyes, there is the harsh warm light from the lamp, and merely that. My bed, my crumpled up pillows, the intrusion of purple, sweat and warm wetness. Disheveled hair, back arched still, thickly red sweatshirt (a melancholy color), draped over the haunches. My smoothly rounded ass. I am smoothly rounded everywhere, like a Rubens portrait. Rubenesque; velveteen and tangible. Bathhouse fog skin and high-sitting full flesh, a hint of teeth through a lasciviously innocent movement of full lips. Someday there will be someone who looks at me first. Someone who stares unabashedly, shocked at the real-life depth of watercolor eyes, and the peeking-toothed-smile. Someday there will be, but there is not now, and I always look first.

I put my glasses back on my head, wearied and ready to sleep, but unprepared. The effort to get off the bed is surprising. I only wish I could imagine someone to hold me and whisper wit with, but no. Nobody I know, really know intimately, is real. So many personal lies. I lie in slight discomfort, my wrist just slightly out-of-whack, twisting to crack my back, looking interestedly at the meat on my bones, and the straight line of my somehow curved thigh. Study old and new scars, pull the underwear back on, disheartened.

There are a thousand reasons why in the purple aftermath, I always feel ill. The satisfaction is never so- never as good as the chase, as if the cycle is so futile it might just stop, but we go about our business because it is only natural, after all.