His eyes lift and I can’t draw in a breath. If I thought he needed me to read the poem for some bizarre reason only he’s privy to, then I was wrong. That wasn’t need. That wasn’t…anything. This is need. This. The flush of his cheeks. The clench of his jaw. The flare of his nostrils dragging in a bucketful of air as though his lungs are starved. He is starved for me.
