Your laugh stuck in my ear is a slow burn I can't shake off.

I want the low, deliberate way you say my nickname when no one's near.

Your scent on the pillow is a low, persistent wanting I didn't invite.

My day narrows down to the moment I can lean into you again.

The memory of your scarf left on my chair has become my current obsession.

I keep imagining your laugh right behind me and it tightens everything.

My mind keeps going back to the scratch on your knuckle from last week.

That chipped mug you use is the image I scroll to between meetings.

I want the neat, quiet way you undo buttons when you think no one's watching.

The way your knee knocks mine under the table is the small electric I keep craving.

I want the impatient tug at my sleeve that means you're not waiting any longer.

I keep thinking about the slick of sweat at your hairline after we danced last time.

I want the hush in your voice when it's only us in the kitchen at midnight.

I keep imagining the look you give me when you catch me staring—it's dangerous.

That smudge of jam on your lip from breakfast is the detail I can't stop turning over.

I want the way you press your palm to my lower back when we crowd together.

I want the small, wild smile you get when I touch the back of your neck.

I keep picturing your jacket draped over the chair and it makes the bed too big.

The sound of you clearing your throat before you speak is the tiny thing that lingers.

I keep imagining your fingers finding the hem of my shirt and timing it with my breath.

I keep thinking about your thumb at the corner of the recipe card in your handwriting.

I want the quiet weight of you on my shoulder while we pretend to watch TV.

That freckle near your collarbone keeps reappearing in my thoughts.

I keep replaying the soft way you said my name before sleep and it sparks something.

Your breath on my ear in the dark is the thought I steal at my desk.

I find myself tracing the sound of your keys in my head and smiling too hard.

I want the sudden way you kiss my temple when I step into the kitchen.

Just knowing your hair will be messy when I see you again is distracting me.

The idea of you waiting by the door is the thing I keep returning to.

I've been counting the hours until I can feel your scuffed sneakers in the hallway.

Thinking about the smell of the cologne you forget in my drawer makes it hard to focus.

Your text from this morning sits in my gallery and I open it too often.

I want you in the small, impossible way that makes my coffee taste like nothing.

I keep picturing your voice saying my name over the phone and it distracts me.

I can't stop thinking about the way your thumbnail catches my lip when you read.

I keep replaying how your jacket smelled when I left—it makes my shirt cling to me all day.

Your message at noon made my skin remember places only you know.

Your scent on the coat I borrowed has been tormenting me between calls.

I want to trace the line where your shirt ends and your skin begins.

Your shoelace coming undone this morning is the thing I can’t stop picturing.