We lay on the concrete slab and it was colder than we had anticipated. Our warm weather sleeping bags were thin and the chill ate through them. We wormed our way towards each other and there was his warmth against my warmth but we were still cold enough to stay wakeful. I wondered about the state of his body, the excitement that it might betray if our clothing were suddenly stripped away. I imagined it would be impossible for him to press himself against me with all my unrequited longing without even a hint of my desire rubbing off on him.
I make this mistake. It is played out on a loop. My longing, this coming together, this projection of desire that is not even distantly echoed by the one that I desire. I am continuing to play this song even now. The melancholy ache of another mistake in progress.
So he pressed against me for my body heat and I inched back hoping to feel some vague stiffening. And next time it will be the same, and the time after, and the time after that. An endless procession of people that I will desire who will never desire me in return.