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She’s a thousand miles away, a galaxy away.  She may as well live in another century. I can’t touch her.  I can’t taste her. I can’t press my face to her neck or whisper in her ear or feel her heat against mine.

So I write.

I tell her sweet things.  Tender things.  I tell her about lying softly in a weak, reluctant morning light, pulling her back against me. I tell her of murmurs and sighs, of my length slipping inside her and our bodies rocking together, all warm colors and loving embraces and of gentle rolling conclusions that wake the day.

Or I tell her to put “tender” back in its box and pull “savage” from the shelf.

I tell her about fury and tectonic forces.  I tell her about hard physics, about motion and feral need.  I tell her how I know.  I know that her body needs to be fucked – a relentless, remorseless, incessant usage.  I tell her there are needs inside her that ache to be released and I intend to rip them out. I tell her that she can plan on sore muscles and abraded skin – that tomorrow she will hurt when she sits and when she walks and that every pain she feels will remind her of my inexhaustible need to use her, to be in her, to merge with her.

And she tells me, “baby, when I read your words, wherever I am, I turn liquid, and my fingers travel my body, as if they are no longer mine.  As if you have captured them for your own use.”

And so while she remains a galaxy away, I continue to write.