My bed is barely cold and I ache just a bit for someone to fill the space beside me. I am intoxicated with the thought of his desire for me. I want to press the tips of my fingers into his joints as he tells me the stories of the paintings on his body. I want to leave my print there, want him to feel my presence the next time he absent mindedly runs his fingers across his skin. I want him to be drunk with the memory of me, overcome with the need for our skin to touch, for him to draw in my presence with every breath.

And I feel no guilt for this, I think about Him, but feel not guilt for these moments which are honey for my soul. I'm sad that He is more in love with work than me, that He loves the idea of me more than the actual person that I have become. But, I have not ounce of regret for these moments, I want more of them. I'm ready to share my bed with this human being I've found a way to lay open my soul to. I want to continue to let him open me in places that have been locked. I want him to understand how he has created a space for the expansion of my being. I hope he feels the way not just my body relaxes in his presence but the whole of my being is some what at ease. I have no explanation for the comfort, perhaps the lack of judging eyes, perhaps I think he understands me in a way that no one has yet to because he has to gain entry without sight. He has no idea whether or not I'm beautiful, but he feels the lengths of my skin and interprets a beauty that is understood only by him. He hears my raspy voice in the evening and holds it in his ears where others would disregard it. I feel like he guards every ounce of knowledge of me as a treasure he is privledged to possess. He asks about my rings as he remembers the fingers they wrap around, runs his fingers across my collar bone and pulls the image of my pendant through his skin.
I feel like I must feverishly write these things before they escape me.
I am yearning for more.