Just when I think we’ve settled, when I can’t seem to communicate my needs in any form, when we brush up against each other and feel prickles instead of tingles, something happens. In the dark, in the night, she reaches for me easily, gently, softly, pulling me closer, caressing me without hurry, paying attention to the places that aren’t so erogenous, that are forgotten until they’re loved and tingle awake, fitting herself against me, half asleep, both of us, warm, fragrant, soft, amazing.
In that half-somnolent state, neither of us are in a hurry. It’s all about the touching, the merging, the being, not the outcome. It’s too dark to see, there’s only sensation, aroma, and small, beautiful sounds that seem so much more intense in the quiet of the early, early morning.
We trust, we love, we touch and open. No deadlines, no other place to be, no other one to be with. Desire for sleep disappears as desire for each other builds. I can never be anywhere else but right here, in the dark, with her, us, always.
She has magic fingers. Let’s just leave it at that.
In the morning, we twinkle at each other over coffee and the sun is brighter than it was yesterday.