Writing my forlorn lover; my ever longing. The one I elude as I am often eluded.
To write voluntarily is a leisure for some, impossible for others, but necessary for me. It is something I desire to faithfully embrace.
I slowly massage my page with each random phrase. Reminding, recording, and informing. The top feels the kisses of my unending desire. Slowly I move down to the neck and arouse hidden feelings, passions, and emotions. With a tender touch of the collar I feel humanity and structure. Each deep breath unlocks another minute of accelerating rapture and excitement. The breasts define the mystery of difference between our worlds. It is the mystery that constantly intrigues me and draws my attention away from myself. The ribs are origin and the stomach sustenance, which resemble the unfound, the unseen, and the always longed for. I reach for the naval, which is the tunnel of connection to the past surrounded by the bones that birth the future. I find below the intimate areas that define all pleasure, perseverance, and power. All the time knowing that the legs and arms that carry out all action are wrapped around me. Holding me close. Forever.
