dear ida,
the press of flesh, the smooth skin against mine. the familiar rhythms of his
breathing in the dark. the slip of a hand on my breast as i drift to sleep.
the giggle when its done and the glimmer in his eye as if to say 'even after all
this time' is this what it feels like? to have the real thing for so long,
unchanging? all your cells - your physical being - change every seven
years ... and in this seventh year im a completely different person. stronger.
louder. more opinionated. more open. more vulnerable. more
aware. more willing to take chances. and as he lays next to me in the
dark and i scribble this on the back of some piece of paper i found -
is it still enough? are we still us? or, like all the cells between us, are we
this entirely new thing? a new breath of air - exhaling out for the first time.
some force, but not enough to hurt me just get my blood racing, yknow. he pressed his chest against my breasts and said something very business like and for a split second i thought maybe i was having a weird drug-induced moment and that he wasn't really pushing me against the wall, but rather he was standing back over by my desk and asking me a business question. very very odd. so then i let out this sigh; quietly but very emotional, and he snapped out of business-mode for two seconds and with those piercing eyes fixed deep onto mine said 'goddamn that was foxy' [which is totally something i would say, i can't imagine HIM saying those words] and then he snapped back into business mode; all the while he's pressed up against me and i'm getting more turned on by the moment.
hi. horny much? jsssh.
xox, me.
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