that sensation when the beat drops

I press my hand upon my thigh
pretending when I feel the velvet tapestry of skin
that its your hand
committing the transgressions, not mine.

I have listened, harken'd your precious melodies
it is a problem of mine I have yet solved
I simply cannot stop, it is the only way I feel/see/touch/taste you.

why aren't there more pictures of you readily available?
I feel like it is a hundred years ago and I need wait
another five (hours?..weeks?..months!) moments until I hear your voice
lest touch you.

I know I should not rush the impunity of trans-atlantic love
but oh, beautiful boy, how difficult this system poses itself unto me
when (we both noted, in discussion) the need of a cuddle
is so great, for it is so cold- even when the sun is out- without you.

I always knew my favorite love would be where you are,
I won't say the place because it goes without saying
but without you it would not be what it is. Oh! the imperfections
of perfection.