I run the tips of my fingers across the creased, soft surface, tactile proof of words said and feel the dusk of history sighing memory in my soul. Gently, I unfold the whispery murmuring paper and caress the words which spill out in a stream of thought and meaning and feel in my heart the resonating vibration of before.
September 19, 1975 ... I remember and my eyes leak poignant want as time contracts and springs the then into the now and I am huddled on my bed in the small, over-heated room, radiator shaking and rattling and fall colours already spilling crimson and gold onto the dusky carpet, a thousand miles between our realities.
I sit on our bed and read your words and marvel at how time is so capricious ... and think of you then with your spill of fair curls halfway down your back, your predator’s eyes, narrow and glittering, tiger eye’s devouring my green gaze.
January 16, 1977... and the words mumble want into my ears and I feel the ache of your absence and the anxious fear of you and the knowledge of lust and need and the compelling, inescapable reality of you brings panic and obsession to a crescendo of anxiety and a solid orange cat purring calm into my ears and warmth and soft paws around my neck bring a modicum of solace.
I pick up another memory and caress the fading indigo of the lined vellum, fading like thought into a soft, wisping grey against the yellowing ivory where your words in their sharp staccato thought lick poignancy into the reality of my now.
I remember hot summer nights on Cardinale and the pungent, musky smell of our coupling, the sticky proof of your wanting on my glistening thighs. Your restless, edgy body is quiet for the moment, the long lean arm lying relaxed across your pillow, your tiger’s eyes closed. I remember lying on my side, devouring the long, sharp lines of your body, nuzzling want into the prickling 2 day growth along the line of jaw and smelling the sharp, musky smell of myself on your mouth. I remember the smooth line of chest and your narrow waist and the sharp delicious jut of your hips and the aching sweet lust I felt as my insatiable gaze devours the still slightly swollen cock which lies against your thigh, shining with the glittering moisture of my lust in the muted yellowed light spilling through the wine dark window.
I’ve always loved your cock.
The delicate, painfully tender skin of its pale length and the wrinkled promise at its tip, skin shyly creasing, embracing the smooth firm crimson nut inside. I used to love creeping up your lean thighs to breathe please into its soft tumescence and lap want gently, a butterfly’s kiss along the length, a soft, firm tongue lipping sinuous in the tip, pushing narrow into the sighing soft folds of skin and I remember how lust would tighten deep inside, until I felt my womb contract with need and the pale tips of my breasts brushing now against your sharp hips, harden, turn crimson and swell into supplicating, yearning want.
I loved the way you would harden, quivering, jerking growth as your cock woke even as you slept on ... until the pulsing, smooth head emerges glistening with the proof of your need and I, gently, lap the swelling, glittering fluid that welled up, a magic elixir of soul satisfying desire wrapped up in a throbbing, moist cock...
And as I would sigh and push into your groin, breathing deep to swallow the hot hard length, gagging greedily and wanting to devour the essence of you, I would feel your hand tangling in my curls and the hot tugging want deep within me would meld with the sharp, demand of your fingers as they pushed my eager lips around your full length until my lips would kiss the soft, painfully tender skin of your balls, swelling now and reaching toward my greedy mouth.
The paper in my hands, worn smooth with the passage of our lives, rustles dryly as I gently refold its creased thoughts as if it sighs a breath into a universe that devours promise and dreams and the words blur and swell as my eyes remember then and yearn for the innocence of certitude.