Hundreds of miles away, yet in my bed, he watched as I removed my shirt, my bra, my panties. I moved the phone so he could see my face, my breasts, my joy at seeing him. He watched as I reached between my legs, so wet, so wanting from our long talk.
His voice coaxed and cosseted me, guiding me until I drifted on my cloud. The crescendo of my desire flew faster and faster toward the finale. Closer and closer. Almost there. Soaring. And at last, release.
Later he wrote me.
I just want you to know that seeing your beautiful face and hearing your voice made me very happy. More than I have been in quite a while. And if there were tears, it’s only because I’ve had to miss you all these years. Not because of anger… I love you.
Darling. My sweet darling. I’m here. Not next door… but here. And I’m not running from you again. I love you.
With heavy eyes I look at my angel’s face… so far away and yet always near. Her image forever burned in my heart from nights filled with passion and love… so far. Yet always… always right here.
You are a poet. Damn. Damn. Damn. And I’m just now really discovering this.
Poetry is not always in words. It can also be in how we love…