They weave a very particular spell, those words of his. Quite unlike any others, they wind themselves into and through my body. Sliding, slithering, caressing, tickling. Ablaze, my body becomes pure sensation. Hungry, yearning, open. Ready. Willing.
With each passing word, each passing day, I find myself wanting. Wanting more. Wanting to be her. Wanting to be the woman who inspires his force, his passion, his reflections.
I know I am not alone. I know there are countless others communing with the page, consuming in the light, devouring in the dark, desirous of the very same.
So I sit and read and yearn and ache while feeling the words. Feeling up his words as if a body laid bare for the taking.
And when I am sated I wonder if my words will ever have that effect. On him.
I live and hope and dream.