RMPvillabedwhiteWrestle with my thoughts and break down my defenses if you can.

Force a subtle change in the bastions of my soul?  I dare you.

Make love to me on a portico overlooking the sea and with your thumb in my mouth, attempt to control the stream of lust laden requests for more.  It cannot be done.  Can it?

Fully immersed in my lover’s lullaby, my body responds to his promises and subtle direction.

Over time, we have created, together, our own little respite from reality,  a feat all but impossible without semantics woven into handwritten notes, gently penned on scented paper,  found tucked into pockets,  telling tales of the taking,  planned for much later,  and instructions about my role in my own undoing.

With a few short years of cultivation,  my heart and body easily travels toward your touch.  When I come across certain words, when I hear the click of the button lock of the doorknob,  or see a man’s hands shaped like yours, the anticipation hits me with a quick tightening.

My mind finds satisfaction in tethering your words to physical memories and in my heart, amusement,  when I am able to send memories of your touch to tactile presence, sometimes, in unexpected circumstance.

Yesterday,  the doctor’s hands brought you to me.   So very respectful,  but when standing in front of me, so close, and  then, when found holding each side of my head  and his fingers exploring my throat,   I could not temper my now instinctual response!

Without hesitation,  I whip into that malleable pose,  tip my chin to the side, and close my eyes and part my lips!

And he releases me,  just as quickly,  falls back into his chair,  and deliberately pushes his body to the farthest wall, as my mistake is amplified in his silence and my error announced through the speed at which my eyelids fly open and my breath is sharply pulled back into my chest with an audible gasp.

So, so memorable.

Our encounters are so easily pulled into my present.

And whenever I am near the sea,  when I pull the cork from a bottle of Italian grape,  when a meditative chant of savored words flings forward and alters my quivering voice,   I feel a reverberating reminder from a distant place where you and I played our parts.

My immersion, in service to you,  readily amplifies in my mind’s eye the wet of your mouth, the song in your eyes, the thoughts pinned under your suit and tie.

The pressure of your fingertips seems always  there, finding me wanting,  hovering,  just under the buttons of my blouse, where fantasy takes form while we are apart.

#for Reticent Mental Property with photo credit to someone lucky enough to spend a life traveling Italy with a camera and a mastery of the romance languages.


I woke early and rolled around in my half-full bed.

My hands are warming on a fresh cup of coffee.  Just holding the cup keeps my hands busy, steadies me. When there’s no one warm under the covers, one takes coffee to bed.

Without the java, my fingertips roam over my wrists and palms and knuckles, tenderly touching the dip between each finger where his hands were laced with mine. My thinking pauses, lingering and laughing at the antics of my own wanting, remembering the sweat on his shoulders and back, and my palms on the headboard in some crazy bracing yoga pose!

Without the steaming brew anchoring me to the present, I will repeatedly touch and follow the long line from ear to shoulder, find my fingers running through my own hair, silently pushing it off my forehead, tucking it behind my ear like his did when he wanted to see my face, the bend of my neck, the muscles of my back, as he looked down at me kneeling on the new sheets.

Dressing for work, physical memories are carved into my muscles. I walk shoulders back, hips thrust forward, my sore limbs and calves serve as witness to my evening workout. The pounding in my head spins the rhythms, tries to articulate the rhymes, sets a pace for those sweet sounds of encouragement,  notes the unintentional interruptions escaping from my throat when someplace inside releases those soft guttural accepting sounds.

The evening is crawling back through my mind, dragging distant proof to the surface, showing me how far away my body can take my mind.

I’m distracted; not seeing the road; my car finds itself parked between the assigned yellow lines.




She smiles about this waking up alone time, the slow stretch, the silent roll into the pillow to pull back the touch of the lover who left later than he planned and earlier than she preferred.




#for Reticent Mental Property


RMPreclining“Incessant talk runs into serious trouble. It can’t honor things, because there’s no “sacred space” for them (to quote someone with whom I spoke recently). There’s no sense of a time for quieting down and listening. Thus, there’s little room for taking anything serious in. Instead, people vie to be heard—but no one’s listening anyway, so no one gets heard. This is an exaggerated representation, of course, but it’s largely accurate.

The problem is not just that people talk, talk, and talk. (Nor is it a problem of extroverts versus introverts, as many who qualify as introverts have a great propensity for chatter.) It’s that there’s so much rush, so much overload of work and information, that people don’t even have a chance to ruminate, to sift through experiences, to read books for pleasure and interest, or to test out ideas.”- Diana Senechal

She’s comfortable in the silence; strolling through her own thoughts; being.

#for Reticent Mental Property