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Description
When I explore your body, I get lost in a library of time stored on shelves- 16 hour bus rides, 9 years worth of longing. Longing for your touch like a tea pot tipping, waiting for the water to land. A cup of coffee sat on a counter getting cold, our story put on hold, brought back to life years later. We’ve blown off the dust, and the story has matured. In a field your freckles are stars in the sky, tiny city lights that can only be seen from the top of a hill. Since August 2006, an apple seed has become an orchard.

On my skin you drew rivers and roads with your fingers. You found the route to my heart and made a nest, reminding me that life is very fragile, that we are just birds looking for a home. Nine years makes us as vast as the ocean, yet we are as intricate as the little lines on a map, branches in a forest, veins in a finger. Your touch is hot coffee mixing in with the cream.

I’ve felt you pull my hips to yours, and I have felt you deep inside me, but I have also heard you whisper and I’ve felt the heat and breath of your soul. Two pink fingers grazing over my bottom lip. Your love is the sun shining on my shoulders, a warm rain in my hair; a house in the country where you can see a light left on in the room upstairs. I would drive a thousand miles through hard rain just to see that light, because we are that light.

I’ve told you before but I’ll tell you again because it’s important: there is a gravitational pull that always brings me back to you. Every day since the first time I saw you, I’ve been feeling this build up of desire to see you again grow more and more intense. And now, I ache in the cold space of stillness without you. I touch myself imagining my hands are your hands. I go to sleep pretending my pillow is your chest. You, drawing tiny moons on my back. You, tugging at the strings on my shorts. You, forever, always you.

Description
When I explore your body, I get lost in a library of time stored on shelves- 16 hour bus rides, 9 years worth of longing. Longing for your touch like a tea pot tipping, waiting for the water to land. A cup of coffee sat on a counter getting cold, our story put on hold, brought back to life years later. We’ve blown off the dust, and the story has matured. In a field your freckles are stars in the sky, tiny city lights that can only be seen from the top of a hill. Since August 2006, an apple seed has become an orchard.

On my skin you drew rivers and roads with your fingers. You found the route to my heart and made a nest, reminding me that life is very fragile, that we are just birds looking for a home. Nine years makes us as vast as the ocean, yet we are as intricate as the little lines on a map, branches in a forest, veins in a finger. Your touch is hot coffee mixing in with the cream.

I’ve felt you pull my hips to yours, and I have felt you deep inside me, but I have also heard you whisper and I’ve felt the heat and breath of your soul. Two pink fingers grazing over my bottom lip. Your love is the sun shining on my shoulders, a warm rain in my hair; a house in the country where you can see a light left on in the room upstairs. I would drive a thousand miles through hard rain just to see that light, because we are that light.

I’ve told you before but I’ll tell you again because it’s important: there is a gravitational pull that always brings me back to you. Every day since the first time I saw you, I’ve been feeling this build up of desire to see you again grow more and more intense. And now, I ache in the cold space of stillness without you. I touch myself imagining my hands are your hands. I go to sleep pretending my pillow is your chest. You, drawing tiny moons on my back. You, tugging at the strings on my shorts. You, forever, always you.