Letter Almost eleven - you will be up for hours still but I will sleep soon.Letter Almost eleven - you will be up for hours still but I will sleep soon. Sorry you are away. I doubt you'll get home in time to talk or touch which is a shame because I want to fuck you to absolution or oblivion. Whichever comes first. Funny how much you hate sunlight, because when I image you it is almost always in terms of light. White gold as sunlight touches the fine hairs on your arm... realms of light and shadow in a dimly lit room caress the place where shoulder meets neck in a delicate hollow begging to be kissed. I enjoyed watching tv tonight, but I would have enjoyed not watching it with you better. We should go to New England and I could push you down into a prickly carpet of autumn leaves and pine needles. When we finally rose, scent of crushed pine would hang heavy in the air and I would not tell you about the mantle of fire-leaf fragments in gold hair. You are so golden. Blonde is nowhere near enough a word. Talking about intensity with an old lover tonight I suddenly remembered walking with you once and feeling so helpless as I told myself that I should just shut up and go away and make your life a little simpler. And then you turned to me and said such things that I was convinced that I was a fool sometimes. Happy enough to cry. For a change. I love the way you've been kissing my neck lately. I think sometime soon, when I'm very awake and it's either not late at night or so late that I've moved past being tired, I would like to spend a very long time kissing your sweet body. On and on until you plead exhaustion. Teach me to make chocolate mousse and we will spend a guilty afternoon on pleasure, remembering tiramisu and raspberry liquer in chocolate on pale skins with sweet smiles and frighteningly open hearts. |