Almost eleven — you will be up for hours still
but I will sleep soon.
Sorry you are away.
I doubt you’ll get home in time to talk or touch
which is a shame because I want to fuck you to absolution
or oblivion.
Whichever comes first.
Funny how much you hate sunlight,
because when I image you it is almost always in terms of light.
White gold as sunlight touches the fine hairs on your arm...
realms of light and shadow in a dimly lit room caress the place
where shoulder meets neck in a delicate hollow begging to be kissed.
I enjoyed watching TV tonight, but I would have enjoyed
not watching it with you better.
We should go to New England and I could push you down into a prickly
carpet of autumn leaves and pine needles.
When we finally rose, scent of crushed pine would hang
heavy in the air and I would not tell you about the mantle of
fire–leaf fragments in gold hair.
You are so golden. Blonde is nowhere near enough a word.
Talking about intensity with an old lover tonight I suddenly
remembered walking with you once and feeling so helpless as I told
myself that I should just shut up and go away and make your life a
little simpler. And then you turned to me and said such things that
I was convinced that I was a fool sometimes.
Happy enough to cry. For a change.
I love the way you’ve been kissing my neck lately. I think sometime
soon, when I’m very awake and it’s either not late at night or so
late that I’ve moved past being tired, I would like to spend a very
long time kissing your sweet body. On and on until you plead
exhaustion.
Teach me to make chocolate mousse and we will spend a guilty
afternoon on pleasure, remembering tiramisu and raspberry
liqueur in chocolate on pale skins with sweet smiles
and frighteningly open hearts.
Tell me again that you love me
and that this letter is not too much an imposition.
I have this terrible temptation to turn this into a poem.