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Here, look. It shudders through his body—down his spine, up and out of the tips of his fingers. A delicate, dogged thing. He’s laughing. He’s laughing. Are you listening? Are you looking? Are you going to remember?
Because it’s fading. Echoing and echoing until it’s a parody of itself, until there’s nothing left at all. You can only have this for so long. You’re selfish, though. You want to reach for it, wrap it around your fingers, your wrists, and let it bind you, don’t you? Say it. Say it. It’d be so easy for you to just say it—and you can imagine, can't you, the exact way his eyes would widen, the color of his cheeks?
You can even imagine how he might say me, too. It’d be so sweet—soft—shy. Mouth curling around the syllables, voice trembling, because he wants this, too. So badly, you imagine. As badly as you, maybe.
Still, remember: you can only have this for so long. It’s going to echo and echo until it's a parody of itself, until there’s nothing left at all.
You’re selfish, though. You’re still going to imagine tracing your thumb around the curve of his lips. You’re still going to needle and needle at him just to make him laugh, just like that, yes, please. Just so you have something to remember, just so you can pretend, won't you?