justprompts: I Drove All Night
The text behind the cut is naughty and all. Don't say didn't warn you! Timeine, last visit to Archangel.
Mon bien-aimé,
I miss you. Yes, still true.
Never mind that I told you so three hours ago on the phone, and again two hours ago, when we hang up. Even if it will take you days to read this and I'll probably tell you again tomorrow, and the day after, till you get this, it is still true. And even if the phone allows us to talk directly, once we cut it off, all we have the memory of the ghost of a shadow, just the voice. And the letter is something you'll be able to hold. Not the same as holding me. But something.
I do not know if being tired and overly emotional - I think the term would be hormonal, actually - adds to it. Probably it does. There are hours when I - I! - do not want to rise from the bed, or some comfortable chair or couch. And then I wish so much you were there beside me. So we could talk, or whatever else. Together. Maybe it was a mistake, coming here without you.
I am not sure my sister is much better, for all she's had a month head start to get used to it.
That is not to say, at all, that either of us is unhappy for being pregnant. Again, and again, and as long as it is true - and that is for ever - I am happy that this life is growing inside of me. Your life and my life. I just wish you were here with me to... well. For comfort.
Or maybe the time away feels worse after that day when I told you I loved you for the first time. When I realized it was so and drove over, creeping into your room as dawn was about to break and we made love before your last day of negotiations. And then after it. And then on the way back. A lot of times. That has always been good, but since then, even better. And I know you know what I mean.
And when the night is cold and dark, I think of you. Of your breathing beside me, of your arms holding me against feeling bad. Or caressing me into feeling something entirely different. Or mouth. Or the sound of your little gasps and cries as some things begin happening.
The feel of you in my hand, in my mouth, in me. Hard and fast or hard and slow. Till we're both ready, ripe for the orgasm, and then for another, and another. And then the silence and peace after. The time for words.
Do you know how much I love your voice? The subtle nuances of it in when in public. The way it warms up in private. The way it changes so minutely at times and I can tell what each change means. The husky sound to it when you want and will not be denied. And the little twist when I make you wait just then. Or the relief when I don't. I miss your voice. I miss your touch. I miss your breath inside me, and the smell... well. The clean smell. And the coming smell. Not when you've picked up some odd one outside. But I miss your smell too.
And your taste.
And your eyes on me, as I move. Furies, it won't look that good when I waddle, will it? Or your eyes soft and warm just when you tell me what you feel for me. Or when you hold me after we've exhausted ourselves and words just come, words that don't need to fill a silence, but bond strength to strength somehow.
... yes, I wanted to tell you I miss you. Because I do. I don't really think there's much of another reason for this letter.
And I love you.
Yours,
Solace.
The letter may come together with a small plastic bottle of baby oil. Just in case.
Mon bien-aimé,
I miss you. Yes, still true.
Never mind that I told you so three hours ago on the phone, and again two hours ago, when we hang up. Even if it will take you days to read this and I'll probably tell you again tomorrow, and the day after, till you get this, it is still true. And even if the phone allows us to talk directly, once we cut it off, all we have the memory of the ghost of a shadow, just the voice. And the letter is something you'll be able to hold. Not the same as holding me. But something.
I do not know if being tired and overly emotional - I think the term would be hormonal, actually - adds to it. Probably it does. There are hours when I - I! - do not want to rise from the bed, or some comfortable chair or couch. And then I wish so much you were there beside me. So we could talk, or whatever else. Together. Maybe it was a mistake, coming here without you.
I am not sure my sister is much better, for all she's had a month head start to get used to it.
That is not to say, at all, that either of us is unhappy for being pregnant. Again, and again, and as long as it is true - and that is for ever - I am happy that this life is growing inside of me. Your life and my life. I just wish you were here with me to... well. For comfort.
Or maybe the time away feels worse after that day when I told you I loved you for the first time. When I realized it was so and drove over, creeping into your room as dawn was about to break and we made love before your last day of negotiations. And then after it. And then on the way back. A lot of times. That has always been good, but since then, even better. And I know you know what I mean.
And when the night is cold and dark, I think of you. Of your breathing beside me, of your arms holding me against feeling bad. Or caressing me into feeling something entirely different. Or mouth. Or the sound of your little gasps and cries as some things begin happening.
The feel of you in my hand, in my mouth, in me. Hard and fast or hard and slow. Till we're both ready, ripe for the orgasm, and then for another, and another. And then the silence and peace after. The time for words.
Do you know how much I love your voice? The subtle nuances of it in when in public. The way it warms up in private. The way it changes so minutely at times and I can tell what each change means. The husky sound to it when you want and will not be denied. And the little twist when I make you wait just then. Or the relief when I don't. I miss your voice. I miss your touch. I miss your breath inside me, and the smell... well. The clean smell. And the coming smell. Not when you've picked up some odd one outside. But I miss your smell too.
And your taste.
And your eyes on me, as I move. Furies, it won't look that good when I waddle, will it? Or your eyes soft and warm just when you tell me what you feel for me. Or when you hold me after we've exhausted ourselves and words just come, words that don't need to fill a silence, but bond strength to strength somehow.
... yes, I wanted to tell you I miss you. Because I do. I don't really think there's much of another reason for this letter.
And I love you.
Yours,
Solace.
The letter may come together with a small plastic bottle of baby oil. Just in case.