Sir,
I find myself longing for you. I started reading again. This takes you off the edge of my mind, pushing you back a little, to a safe distance. It's not a perfect coping mechanism however… From time to time my mind wanders and starts imagining you next to me.
I wonder how you'd sit on our sofa. Which side is your favorite. I like to lean towards the left, so that would be an ideal side for you to be — but if you prefer the right side, I will adapt no questions asked. I wonder if you'd be reading your own book, or read mine over my shoulder. Or if you'd be reading the map of beauty marks spread across my skin.
I wonder how your hand would feel like on my leg. In winter, under the soft blanket. In summer, on my already burning skin. In the car at night, at the red light. Whether I'm wearing jeans or stockings. But then I start wondering how your hands would feel like on all the other parts on my body, and I lose focus.
Shit, what page was I on already ? Forgot to slide my bookmark in…
Didn't forget to imagine you sliding in me though… Oh fuck, I'm doing it again. Sir, I swear it's not just physical, it's not just lust. You know how it all started, you know how it is. You know the saying "laughing woman, halfway in your bed" — don't play innocent! I know you're not. Not like that.
You might be innocent to the depth of my feelings. You may be blind to the love I carry for you. I get it, it's strange. I'm a strange one. I'm not expecting you to see nor understand any of it. I may never carry the message clearly to you — at least not until we're done or undone.
I could try to explain it now, but it wouldn't make much sense. I'd start talking of obscure things like energy and souls and entanglement. Things I don't even know shit about. But things I feel, things that come to me as universal truth. Probably similar feeling to those believing in a greater being in the sky. Anyhow.
Did I tell you that I miss you?