When you sit down to write smut and grief comes out, am I right? I miss the silent, exasperated ways we’d talk to each other about what we needed; the way you would come undone, knowing exactly what you could say to inspire my words to action, so that I’d rake my pen quill-fingers across your throat. I’d drag you down, deep into me. I miss the sunlit silhouette of your imperfect body in a bath robe that is not at all as soft as you must be. I miss your teasing giggles—even the one with the specific name because you can’t control how it sounds. I miss your daily motivation being to make me hard—to unravel me as much as I'd wanted to tear you apart.