I wither without her.
My cock may stop at your depths, but I will continue to plunge into the very being of you.
Every woman is a reminder that she is not you.
I awoke to thoughts of you. My hand instinctively to my hardness. I stroked the length as I buried myself inside of you. Climaxed to your moans.
A soft breeze.
Shifts in temperature.
Idle chatter with the neighbors.
Picking up the milk.
Fingering the spines of books.
The pressing crowd.
Strangers brushing past.
Every knowing glance.
Minor details of the day, once routine, now triggered thoughts of the growing wetness between her legs.
She wore a skirt and went without panties.
She obeyed me.
When my gaze lingers, a while longer than it should, you should know, on the street, in the cafe, or under neon lights, I am slowly undressing you.
The strap of your dress an apostrophe, fallen, once yours and now mine.
We would wait for each other in a sea of darkness, our blinking cursors acting as lighthouses.
I found myself getting aroused whenever my hand got near my face.
I had left the house with her scent on my fingers.
Each thrust had intent, deep and forceful, pushed to hollow. To create more space within her.
I wanted to fill her completely with myself.
The morning came and the sun rose,
painting your body a golden hue,
hills and valleys where my hands had traveled
in the urgency of night.
My lips will follow before the dew disappears.