In the settling of the light, the moments when heart and mind unite to regard the day in quieter hours before dream owns the soul, I think of you. If there were a way to tear out the thought, to bide my time until other fancy chains my attention, perhaps I would. There is no answer for it. If greedy hunger for your touch did not encompass many of these quiet moments, then they could be called something less than self indulgent.
No, there is nothing less than urgency in my notions of how touch and hand couple with happy accord under your skilled mastery. It is not without danger, though. To find oneself inside the heart, holding tense anticipation at bay, eagerly considering each time we have held each other as lovers, I ache with a powerful thirst for you. Lips curling about your throat, drinking your flavor, and then there is the longing for pure touch, pure release as I lay beneath you, submitting wholey to your power. Oh and if that hour of silence when I may indulge myself with hungry memory I could fully feel the wholeness of you, then perhaps even then I could be sated. It is not to be.
No. For the sheer act of remeberance does little more than tantilize, exciting senses in pieces of cognizant thought. Extolling a mere list of catalogued sense and emotion with no real ability to loose chaotic whim, the sweet ungent of uncertainty, the delightful unknown. Oh there are the words childlike, innocent, all of thoses and more. Memory is a poor servant.
I understand how an ending must begin. The heady delight of love loses not merely flavor, but hunger. Flavor is the stuff of memory. Hunger is raw as emotion, but chemical, primordial. When love is hunger it holds full promise. And so an ending must be a full heart, overstuffed and sated, ready to push away. Ready to do the business of the world.
I think that I can not lose the hunger for I see how the ending has come to you. It has become unwieldy and unsettling, like the cramping of a starving man sitting down to a feast. Oh love, I was a feast of deep pleasure, or so you said. I hear your voice in my ear, hushed and breathless, rasping with fiery passion as you roil and buck atop me. I close my eyes and burnished memory invades.
How fine were those first moments? Elation, heady and breathless, clothed me then. To confess it, it still washes through my veins when I say your name. Trembling fingertips touched you the first time, the moment our souls melded with fiery passion. How was I to know that I would ache with each parting?
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You have transformed my life. A part will forever be yours, lost to the delicious pleasure, to the easy regard, the sunlit moments when we touched. The ending has come to fruition, it is no longer a gentle silence that affronts lusty emotion, no it is all politics and politeness. And my choice is to meet you on this ground with nothing less than chivalrous intent.
Do I become lost? Do I become vanquished? Truth: I was vanquished that first moment you took me into your arms, lay your warm lips upon me, made me your own. No, love, I am not vanquished, I am not lost. I have become something more for knowing you.
I have learned something deeper: That you could never lose yourself inside my heart. Above all else, this causes the most pain. Not forlorn hope of lost chance, or misguided fate, for truth be told, I am no man's owned thing, but the heady freedom I felt inside my soul was something I do not think you felt free enough to express, except in passion's embrace.
How quiet you were until sweet lusty heat burned off all pretense. I shiver deep in my sex at the thought of how your unleashed self almost turned me to ash. You gave over to a part that I think you keep deeply held. You gifted me with pleasure that makes me wet to recall it: your lips, your toungue, the soft abrade of your silken sex as it pierced me, parting my lips...oh god why do I ache for you as no other?
Oh dear God! Do I not see that perhaps that was the most elated freedom you could feel wrapped inside your life? Did the selfishness of my love not understand that it was in that hidden world of erotic release you could only then fly with me to the secret heaven of met souls? Forgive me that uncharitable moment.
Forgive me. Then please forgive yourself and love your wife as I have loved you: full of joyous abandon, wreckless emotion, and singing heart.
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Morning sun bathes my bedroom with the laughing light of a bodhisattva who knows all. I shall press sweet memory into a perfect corner of my heart and leave you to join the day.
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