146.1
Nights are spent in overindulgence of fine wine sent from France from a friend who prepares for our visit. Drunk, he catcalls at young men passing down below as he's bent over the rail of the balcony, exposing his bareness to me, a silent plea. I coddle, strong against him, inside him, as I look over his shoulder, smiling knowingly at the lads below.
We make love until every fibre in our bodies cry for relief, then make love again. It's a testing of boundaries, a test of endurance, a test of the very core of life melting into a sinuous cord. The cord binds us together, heart to heart, soul to soul, escape neither desired nor possible.
Weak, he nurtures me with sustenance thicker than wine, yet equally intoxicating. There is fury and sweet, mystical wrath that sings from pours dripping perspiration. The silent cry that deafens ears. He grapples at my skin, confirming this is real, fingers pleasantly slick.
My darling...my perfect beautiful darling...this is what love is.
How could I deny? I've spent my adult life denying.
Yet now I confirm. Again and again.
We make love until every fibre in our bodies cry for relief, then make love again. It's a testing of boundaries, a test of endurance, a test of the very core of life melting into a sinuous cord. The cord binds us together, heart to heart, soul to soul, escape neither desired nor possible.
Weak, he nurtures me with sustenance thicker than wine, yet equally intoxicating. There is fury and sweet, mystical wrath that sings from pours dripping perspiration. The silent cry that deafens ears. He grapples at my skin, confirming this is real, fingers pleasantly slick.
My darling...my perfect beautiful darling...this is what love is.
How could I deny? I've spent my adult life denying.
Yet now I confirm. Again and again.