how you trickle...I

Sex trickles from my brain onto everything this past week and I do not know whether to blame you or thank you for it.
I do not yet know how to cultivate my want, hold it all in, keep it growing so that I can release it in full at a better time.
It drips out, I cannot hold it, I try, and there is too much pressure, valves I cannot close, I irrigate my life little by little with sex.
I cannot focus it, it permeates a little bit of everything, has its hand in every little of my actions.
I walk into my room, turn on the lights in my room, the plastic switch, flick, against skin of my fingers, click, thought of your fingers on my clit, a tiny inward tightening in my heartbeat.
You think I am exaggerating.
The day you were to arrive, sitting in class, thoughts of wanting you so strong, it made me want anything, the scratch of meaningless pencil notes on paper was sexy, and the back of the neck of the guy sitting innocently in front of me was oh so sexy. I tried not to stare, but it was so smooth and a gorgeous tan brown, and his hairline ended with this fascinating golden fuzz. I thought of how it would feel to touch it, if it would be soft or prickly. If only my teeth could tickle it, a drop of saliva dribbling out, wetly smoothing his short spiky hair down.
And to sit there and not do a thing at all. I had to let a little of it out in my mind.
Felt so tactile, transferred it onto others, everything begged to be touched, when really it was me who needed the touching.
And now that you have come and gone, you have taken over my whole house.
Who knows what will spark it next? There is the whir of my fan, bed sheets, videogames we played, my piano, there is the feta cheese we ate still left in my fridge.
You’ve touched a little bit of everything in here, how do you expect me now to be free?
My mind is leaking sex, the way my body did onto your fingers, so instantly, when I was pushed up against my living room wall by you.
Your face was so close, and I was begging so hard for more, you kissed me once, shortly, pulling away to move on to where I needed you.
You knew the respite I wanted, there was nothing underneath my shorts and tank top, you reached me easily and I was already wet.
‘Oh you poor thing’ you murmured as you stroked me, ‘poor thing’
After two weeks of waiting, I was already wet from the instant you walked in through the door. Everything after was unbearable.
To finally have you in my house, unbearable.
To have you in my kitchen, minutes before the living room, unbearable.
I leaned against the sink, knife in hand, chopping herbs for you, and you were behind me suddenly. A hint of your hardness against my ass. The relief of your body resting vertical against me. I loved the resistance I tried to put up, because it was fleeting, because it melted before it started. Loved the contrast, our light conversation against the weight of your push, the discrepancy between my burst of desire and the even measured way I tried to continue to move my knife against the grain of the green on the cutting board. Then I gave up completely, and ground myself backwards against you, started to spread my legs already, saw my vague reflection on the balcony door, knew that the neighbors could look out any second and see me recklessly lustful, rubbing against you.