Dear Lover
Dear Lover,
Last night I smelled your black lace thong. To get a whiff of your ravishing scent. At the back of my lonely bed it lays spread on two tiny red couch cushions. I clutched it in my hands, wet thinking. I could hear the whisper of your voice surround my rose fragranced room,
“Missing me again, Papi, missing me?”
I’ve been keeping the bed warm and clean. Imagining you here by drawing pictures in my head at night. My yearning for you surges. I sat contemplating how these magic hands have been idle lately. And my raunchy tongue needing its dose of the strawberry juice lying at the meeting of your saucy thighs.
I miss watching my fingers, wires that make your skin static, lighten you up as a burning electricity pole. I flow into you like heavenly neurons. You’re a blazing fireworks warehouse. Your moans leave me tipsy.
Dear Love,
There are spirits in your mouth that caress my thickened dipstick. The way you envelop it sacredly, embracing it with your kind succulent lips. The joy of your saliva. It is always a ritual in between your teeth. I’m the medicine man with a fleshy herb your body craves for.
I wanted you so desperately. But you’ve been gone far too long I’m starving. For your attention. Your enticing presence. I miss dining from your cute divine mind.
Dear Lover,
The cold has been messing my psyche. I cannot write and reach you enough. Something gets lost in between these gushing words and the feelings that remain painfully unexpressed.
When are you coming home, Child? When do I get to kiss you again? I want to sublime into your nerves and be one with you anew. I yearn to be struck by your salient energy; with a bottomless whim. A perilous kink. Precarious vagary.
Put me on a cliff with your legs wide open. Tie me to a rock. Invite me to your musing. I am a prisoner of your cerebration.
Tell me when you’re coming home, my darling. So I can breathe the air of you. So I may heal from life’s tragic wretchedness. So my soul may rest. Tell me, tell me.
Here, these Sunday blues wreck my bones. I miss you like the wives of Mau Mau fighters who could never tell if their husbands would return from the forest. Like an old soul’s yearning for its mate in the uncertain 1952 State of Emergency.
Loving you is worship.
Tell me when you’re coming home.
Yours,
Lonely Heart
