Page 12 of The Words of Us

I close my eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but instead, they intensify. I imagine what it would be like to kiss her, to feel her lips against mine, soft and warm. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, and I feel a heat building low in my stomach. It’s been so long since I’ve let myself want someone like this, but with Sasha, the desire is undeniable, almost overwhelming. I can’t stop thinking about her—about the way her skin might feel beneath my fingertips, the way her body might move under mine.

I let out a slow breath, my heart beating faster as the images in my mind take over. I imagine running my hands through her hair, feeling its softness, tugging her closer until our lips meet. I wonder what it would be like to taste her, to let my tongue trace the curve of her lips before deepening the kiss. The thought sends another rush of warmth through me, and I shift slightly in bed, trying to find a more comfortable position as the tension coils tighter inside me.

I can almost feel her now—her breath against my skin, the warmth of her body pressed against mine. The thought is intoxicating, and I can’t help but let my mind wander further. I imagine the feel of her beneath me, her skin smooth and soft, her body arching as I kiss her neck, her collarbone, trailing my lips lower until I find the places that make her gasp.

My breath quickens as I think about how she would taste, how her skin would feel warm and sweet against my tongue. I can see it so clearly in my mind—Sasha, lying beneath me, her chest rising and falling with each breath, her eyes half-closed in pleasure. I can hear the soft sound of her moans, feel the way her body would respond to my touch, the way her fingers would dig into my skin as she pulls me closer.

The thought is almost too much to bear, and I can feel the heat pooling between my thighs, the need building in intensity. But it’s not just physical. It’s something deeper than that—something emotional, something that scares me, even as it draws me in. I want to touch her, yes, but more than that, I want to know her. I want to explore the parts of her that she’s kept hidden, to uncover the things that make her who she is. I want to understand the way her mind works, to trace the lines of her thoughts like I would trace the lines of her body.

I open my eyes, staring into the darkness of my room. My heart is still racing, my skin tingling with anticipation, but there’s a sense of calm beneath it all. It’s strange, this feeling,this mix of desire and something else, something softer and more vulnerable. I’ve spent so long avoiding intimacy, so long keeping myself closed off from the possibility of love, but with Sasha, it feels different. It feels like maybe, just maybe, I’m ready to let someone in again.

I can’t stop thinking about her—about the way her eyes lit up when we talked, about the way she listened so intently, like every word I said mattered. I’ve never met someone who made me feel so seen, so understood, and it’s both thrilling and terrifying.

My fingers graze my lips as I imagine kissing her again, the softness of her mouth against mine, the way her breath would hitch as our bodies pressed closer. I want to touch her, to taste her, to feel the heat of her skin against mine.

I let out a soft sigh, rolling onto my back and staring up at the ceiling once again. The tension in my body hasn’t lessened, but there’s a peace that comes with it now—a sense of rightness, of inevitability. Whatever this is between us, it feels like something worth pursuing, something worth risking my heart for. And that’s not a feeling I’ve had in a long time.

As my mind drifts further, I can’t help but wonder what tomorrow will bring. We’re meeting for coffee, but I already know it’s going to be more than that. There’s a connection between us, something unspoken but undeniable, and I’m ready to see where it leads. I’m ready to let myself feel again, to let myself want again. And for the first time in years, I’m not afraid of the possibility of getting hurt.

I close my eyes, letting the warmth of the sheets cocoon me as sleep begins to pull me under. But even as I drift off, my thoughts remain on her and the way she made me feel tonight. The way she made me feel seen, understood, desired. I fall asleep dreaming of her, of her lips on mine, of her skin beneath my hands, of the way her body might taste, warm and sweet against my tongue.

And as I slip into sleep, I know one thing for sure: This is just the beginning.

“And that’s exactly why I can’t stand him,” Sasha says with a grin, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she takes a sip of her coffee.

I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? How can you not love Walt Whitman? The man practically reinvented poetry!”

Sasha leans back, a sly smile pulling at her lips. “Oh, come on. He’s a little too self-indulgent for my taste. All that ‘Song of Myself’ stuff—it’s like, we get it, Walt. You really like yourself.”

I feign shock, putting a hand over my heart. “Take that back! ‘Song of Myself’ is brilliant! It’s about the universal human experience, the connection between all of us.”

Sasha arches an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this. “Or it’s just one long love letter to himself. Seriously, Evie, the man wrote an entire collection calledLeaves of Grass. That’s not just a poet; that’s someone who spends way too much time admiring himself in the mirror.”

I laugh again, shaking my head as I lean forward. “You are impossible. Fine, if you want to dismiss one of the greatest American poets, that’s on you. But at least tell me you don’t have the same problem with Sylvia Plath.”

Sasha smirks, leaning in as if she’s about to reveal some big secret. “Oh, Sylvia. Now there’s someone who knew how to write about the dark stuff. But?—”

I gasp, cutting her off. “But?”

Sasha raises a finger, pretending to be serious. “Hear me out. I love Sylvia Plath, I really do. But sometimes…don’t you thinkshe’s a little too bleak? Like, I get it, life sucks, but does it have to suck that much?”

I let out a dramatic sigh, leaning back in my chair. “Sasha, you’re killing me here. Plath is all about raw emotion. She doesn’t sugarcoat anything, and that’s what makes her work so powerful. It’s unfiltered; it’s honest. It’s human.”

Sasha chuckles softly, clearly enjoying herself. “I’m not denying that. I just think, maybe, just maybe, a little bit of light at the end of the tunnel wouldn’t hurt.”

I can’t help but laugh at that, shaking my head as I sip my coffee. “Okay, fine. If Plath is too bleak for you, who’s your go-to poet? The one who gets it just right?”

Without hesitation, Sasha answers, “Maya Angelou. Hands down.”

I nod, relief washing over me. “Finally, we agree on something. Maya is a goddess.”

“Right?!” Sasha’s face lights up, her hands gesturing excitedly. “She has this perfect blend of strength and vulnerability. She writes about pain, but she also writes about resilience. ‘Still I Rise?’ That poem is a masterpiece.”

I smile, leaning in a bit closer. “And the way she uses rhythm and repetition, it’s like her words stick with you, like a melody you can’t get out of your head.”

Sasha leans forward too, lowering her voice like she’s about to share a secret. “Did you know she was also a calypso singer? I mean, seriously, is there anything she couldn’t do?”

My eyes widen in surprise. “Wait, I didn’t know that! She was a singer?”