Dear Red,
My hands miss you even now. They miss the feel of your skin, the warmth of your body. They miss running through your hair, squeezing the soft skin around your neck, pinching your taught nipple, parting your lips, fingers swimming in the warm wetness, tight and strong, yielding walls.
My fingers miss you even now. They miss creating the causes for those small moans to escape your throat. They miss meeting your fingers in the push and pull games we would play. They miss tickles, and walking along the pale bumpy shore of your shoulder blades, raised pores, sensitive beyond measure. They miss control with tiny touch. They miss running for their lives to avoid being crushed in the roiling brawl, dark room, damp sheets, foot on floor, head on bed.
My head, it misses you even now. It spins and movies play across my lids. I yearn to close my eyes in every waking moment to bring you back to my here and now. My ears feel your lips, hear your whispers. My neck hair raises to think that near you passed. I smell the air hoping to catch the non-existent waft of your invisible scent – woodsy deodorant, dark amber and cotton candy.
My dearest Red, my soul misses you even now. It was as if it was whole until I bore into you and created the causes for my own misery. Misplaced attachment and tangible fear of loss to replace peace and joy and love. An uncontrolled desire that rewrites fact with lustful fiction on a cord I wrap ‘round both our necks.
Dear Red what mind is it that yearns for direct suffering as the product of a wish? What mind that reaches for the poison on the top shelf and strives to spill every last drop into its own being? What unabashed lust that craves bodily satisfaction over everlasting love? It is my mind. So in my mind we sit together now. All night long we have not stirred, and yet God has not said a word!
The Halfwit Writer 