Imaginary Love Letters: Number Three

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Sweet Mercy —

Your hands make me feel like my edges aren’t blurry; edges that soak and seep, so porous that I lose who I am in the giving and the forgetting, the forgetting that I am also supposed to receive not just absorb and bleed. Your hands offer a reminder that I am a palpable, self-contained, and breathing wholeness that I can choose to share. Or not.

Your eyes make me feel like all the pigment I’ve lost, my scattered white patches – my speckled hen’ness – might not be ugly but unique and beautiful. Your eyes make me feel like I am not trapped on some tender scale of outright damaged to strangely fragile. Your eyes make me feel like I needn’t bother hating the dimples on my thighs and ass.

The shapes and textures and shades of me under your hands and in your eyes are the sexiest fucking thing…

You are the most erotic mirror I’ve ever known.

You are so damn hot and damn the dangers of hyperbole: nights like last night should be burned into the annals of history and marked with globally honoured holidays.

I hope you are as distracted today as I am 🙂

Sensual, grinning ::: shiver :::


(What are these Imaginary Love Letters? Click Here)

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