Don’t get me wrong.
It’s not all me.
It’s not all you.
It’s called life.
We live at full throttle and want more. More speed. More track. More curves sometimes.
I’ve dragged you through my year of hell. I admit this.
Your schedule has priorities and deadlines, you add.
How can I criticize?
You love hard; easily.
I want hard; seems easier.
Patiently, you try to show me how to slow myself, stroking me with your constant touch. When standing in line or waiting at the bar, your longest finger is forever wandering to the lowest vertebrae in my back. I do not forget the gentle tap tap tapping there telling me your desire is everywhere, always there, whether I stand beside you or not.
You whisper kisses and leave trails of lyrical, lingering longings in handwritten notes tucked away to be discovered in my handbag, sometimes found waiting in the wind under the arm of the wiper blade.
Your digital scrawls travel to intersect, to deliciously interrupt my meetings, my formal world.
In transit to the airport, sometimes just out of the last conference call, you text expressions of aching need for far more than the physical which find me when I wake in this time zone, when I hastily check my messages for proof you exist.
With thumb-skilled accuracy we touch the tiny keyboards of our connection, posting written conversations as though we are engaged in debates staged in the parlors of forgotten times.
You write and speak with me like no other man has. Your vocabulary descriptive and poetic, laced with angst and anticipation.
M y head dizzies with the loops of love talk weaving through your words. You provide such divine use of my mind with the deciphering of your blatant and heated innuendo.
You have set a new standard. One I do not wish to test living without.
You tell me you learned long ago, secrets about tender care, about sharing what needs to be heard, about frequent connection in expressions which must reach far beyond the day’s ins and outs.
You know all too well. You once let tender attentions go missing, and have surrendered more than once to the slow withering of the spirit from years of neglected touch. You’ve felt the distance created when wife and lover hide behind her busy. You nod in knowing she too had been left to steep in emptiness at the loss of lust-making when husband and lover blatantly rushed his privilege.
Getaways and rendezvous- we simply attend to the darkest recesses of fantasy, try to defy age and time through resistance to the mundane and are grateful we stumbled upon each other when we did.
Soul mates? Probably not. Time travelers? We wish. Playful feasting. Yes, we make it what it is.
Today we offer reassurances of time, of trust and taking, all penciled in calendars that we’d rather booked hours of our lives rather than spanning the weeks and months we witness in the blink of the eye.
#for Reticent Mental Property. Image credit to the web. Inspiration credit to men who read, who write, who possess the mouth and hands to turn clay to art, breathe life into letters and string sentences of sentiment in person as well as across the digital divide.