Don’t think I don’t.
You slipped away once and I should have grabbed hold of you. You know the world, our world, the world of words in which we work, has a hundred thousand rumors. That you bear the same scars and tattoos as your brainchild, that you feast on the flesh of the unborn, that you have used up and discarded as husks a thousand young women and men who have thrown themselves at your feet, wanting only to worship.
I should have grabbed hold of you the last time I saw you. I should have pulled you free from the river of flesh and flashbulbs that surrounded you, and branded you there. Marked you in public. You already know you’re mine — why can’t they?
I said goodbye without wanting to, when I meant to lay my cheek to yours and promise it was more real than anything I had ever known — cold glass on my cheek and palms, warm leather on my legs. I had stared at myself in your mirror, and bit my lip until it nearly bled, to prove that the moment was then, there, happening.
I see you coming alive again and it is my perfect wish to dive in and get you, this time, and never let you free, never again. I’d do it because I know what they don’t. I know when you’re naked. I know where you’re bare and smooth and blank, that your skin is warm and your eyes are dark and your need is a fire. Because I know the food that sustains you, and the taste of your mouth is barren without me.
You never leave anything behind, Jones. Lusty and fiery and pure passion, writing at its best. I’d dream of seeing this bigger and part of a narrative, if I had the right.