Sometimes there is no peace from longing and desire. A breeze tugs the edge of my skirt and I want a hand to stroke the inside of my thigh. Sunshine warms my shoulders and wish it were a kiss. My very pulse is an insistent throb. Everything is designed to prompt my yearning.
Restless, hot and turning, a night alone like this seems to last a week. The obvious solution can bring a respite and sleep, but the inner cinema runs and runs through the night, and I waken still in darkness in these short nights, my upper lip beaded with sweat, a furnace of frustration again.
Even my very dreams are of longing rather than fulfilment. I am tortured relentlessly by anticipatory scenarios that never reach the end of the journey, surreal interruptions to the flow of events that snatch away the climax, over and over again. I hunger for skin to skim mine, for hands tangled in my hair.........the rhythm that soothes the ache.
For a long time I felt comme-ci, comme-ça about the whole business. Ignore those feelings and maybe they will soon die down to few lonely embers. Fan the flames though, even be it briefly, rarely - and now we have a forest fire.
One kiss and we strike the match: light my touch-paper if you dare.
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