Tuesday, March 13, 2007

A Letter from Elsewhere

This is what I think about. What you’re doing when I can’t be with you. I think about you in the shower in the morning, the soap bubbles on your skin, the feel of them popping under my fingertips, what that must feel like to you, the tickle of them on your skin, headed, ever so slowly, down the back of your shins. I think about you working out, the seat of the bicycle between your thighs, the dance of your balls above, above that, above the sweat and twist of your midsection, your breaths, what you sound like before I make you come, a crackling catch here, but mostly rhythm, mostly see-saw rushing air. I think about you at work, your fingers nimbly plucking dead leaves from a plant. Details. Accuracy. Affection. But you can heft a tree into a hole that you carved into the earth, plunging it with patient accuracy into the ground, sliding it in like a key into a lock. I think about the sweat on your neck, forced to circle the landscape of your musculature. It lands on your shoulder, quivers there and drops, a lucky raindrop starting a lake in the cavity above your collarbone.

And what do you do at night when I’m not there? Do you do what I do? Do you think about me? Does your hand drop into your shorts at night like mine does? I think about you every night, the squishing sound of my hand around my cock makes a soundtrack to the movie I have of you in my head. I picture you in your living room, legs splayed, one on the back of the couch, one shaking on the floor. I picture you on the floor, all fours, knees spread as if I’m under you, your hand pumping to complete the illusion. I imagine you taken suddenly, as you sit down to your dinner, to push the plate away and dive into your pants. I’m there every night, you know. My lips are wrapped around the tip of your cock, waiting to taste you, waiting for the spray across my tongue. My hand is in my own pants now. I long for you, your smell so tangy and sweet. I’ll be home soon. My body will feel yours again. But now, I’ll live in this dust of memory, spit-shined by imagination. Your cock is so beautiful in my dreams.

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