I write on a Friday afternoon.
The silence surrounds me. This silence stills my movements. My hips do not dance in this chamber of echoes.
I begin to mumble, to stutter, to pause. My mind wanders to another place, not here, a place where your words spill onto me. A place where your hand traces my lines, where mine return the favour, an oft traveled pathway, my finger traces your forearm, your shoulder, the bend of your neck, the line of your nose.
I pull myself back.
This love affair is lonely. We are bodies uniting in stilted moments. We are gorgeous grindings. We are glorious staccato breaths, arched backs pressing into three fingers, my mind imagines tomorrows sunrise- the waking, to You.
I am heartache and heartbeats and heartfelt.