BellyButtonBug

365 days a month ago. A year did little to dull his feelings. In fact, the further away he felt from her, the more brilliantly they bloomed, flashes of crimson, gold, and sunset orange dancing in his head as he called to mind her smile, her stride, the sound of her voice. All for a single chance meeting, an hour or so, an hour among thousands and yet it was the one he clasped tighter than any to his heart. He must be sick. Something must be deeply wrong. Something inside of him twists, writhes, coils its body gleefully, thrilling at that hollow, sinking sensation in his guts, squeezing itself tight around his lungs as poison slips sweet and thick through his veins. He stares at himself in the mirror and it peers out through his eyes, burning and pulsing. Its serpentine weight in his chest forces him to imagine her body near his. How she stepped close, the hem of her shirt lifted playfully, those words, "Do you want to touch it?" slithering between her lips and pounding against his