The blanket brushes against my hardness. As I melt in place at the the thought of the softness of your skin, the heat in between your thighs, the curves of your supple breasts. I crave the your wetness like sweet nectar Your pomegranate lips pressed against mine. My fingers drawing circles of want, your voice exhaling into my ear the arch of your back, with every thrust Mornings come and go, like soft waves, As my patience erodes.

And I would revisit you again and again, until your story and mine could no longer be told apart, until our love had worn our pages soft from being opened with such such passion and devotion.