Whenever I close my eyes, I feel his lips on my throat, soft but firm; his long, sensitive fingers traveling my body, sending shivery ripples trilling down my spine; my own eager hands exploring him, pulling him closer to me, skin-to-skin. I remember how we moved together and how we rested together, always touching, wrapped up in each other, even our thoughts merging and drifting into each other’s.
My initial attraction was purely physical, his visual appeal luring me before I ever spoke a word to him. When he miraculously returned the spark I felt, we could barely contain ourselves, our fevered imaginings heightening our mutual desire.
Indulging my desire has only served to whet my appetite. I want more, I want more.
But there is distance. And complications.
So I dare not dream of anything past the next moment, the next meeting.
I know we’re rounding the bend, closing in on the hard talk, the one that deals with expectations, but I don’t want to go there just yet. I don’t want the cold light of messy reality quashing this beautiful fantasy. I love this feeling; I even love the longing that keeps me tossing restlessly through the night, yearning for his touch. Knowing he’ll be holding me soon, my heightened state has aroused my senses, bringing me to excruciatingly sensitive, scintillating life: the wind feels rawer, colder; the sun seems hotter and brighter; the air stirring on my skin raises prickly, pleasurable goose bumps. I sit and stare out my window for longer than I should admit, watching the wind ruffling the leaves, mirroring the ripples of anticipation, the expectant rise and fall building within me.
We’re calling it love, but it’s love in the now, encased in such lust and longing that we’re able to ignore the world around us. Strip away the lust and I’m not sure if what lies beneath equals a forever love between us. I adore him as I know him in the moment: he’s brilliant, intense, worldly; he’s tender, kind, passionate, thoughtful. I love the way he writes to me: compactly, neatly, with an economy of words that somehow conveys pure emotions. His words feel direct, honest and true; he does not disguise himself behind pretty, but ultimately meaningless, phrases.
Part of me is itching to delve deeper, to ask questions, to learn this man thoroughly, inside and out. The other part is reluctant to probe because I know he will respond honestly, maybe too honestly, possibly unraveling the complications that may ultimately unravel us.
And so I hover in this netherworld, this gray area, wishing for more, fearful of more. But in the interim, I’m loving the loving. Oh, how I’m loving it.