Touch Me

There is distance between He and I these days.  We are, at best, tentative with one another.  On other days, on other nights, we each sleep plastered on our respective far edges of our king-size bed.  We've managed, on just a few mornings, to make love -- but even that is subdued, damped down, lacking the fire that once characterized our every interaction.  It isn't surprising.  Really, it isn't...

My mind, however, seems intent on filling the gaps, and my subconscious seems to be quite blatantly working to keep me in touch with the sensual and sexual parts of who I am.  And so -- I dream.

Of feather light touches.
Of a single fingertip tracing its way across my skin.
Of warm, strong hands cupping the places that curve.
Of muscles kneaded with slow rhythms.
Of delicate tracery along the contours of my face, down the bridge of my nose, and around the bow of my lips.
Of fingernail scratches leaving faint red tracks on the whiteness of my belly and my breasts.
Of secret crevices and downy patches probed and petted.

None of that is in my immediate future.  Those hungers will go on for however long.  The dreams, the late night visions and imaginings will have to suffice.  For now. 

For now.

swan