I can hear it. I can hear them.
Even as the world beyond begins to wake. Even as the soundtrack of the new day winds its way into the space between these four walls.
The silent cries of the tangled sheets of snow yearning to bear the marks of your ravenous lust.
The low moans of the mahogany borders ready to imbibe our sweat and screams and molten heat.
The disappointed sigh of a bed that aches to feel your imposing weight, your dominant touch, your crazed desire for supple flesh.
I hear their longing and I feel it, understand it, in my body and blood and bones.
And when I do, I wish you here with us all once more.
Once upon a time, his gaze studied every inch of my fair body, as if it were a wonder born in a bygone era, a curiosity fashioned from canvas and brushstrokes and oils, worthy of the gallery wall, the hungry crowd, deserving of his centre stage.
Once upon a time, his hands roamed with passion, urgency and fervour, as if these curves were chiselled from cold and unyielding marble, this skin and flesh brought to fiery life by desire and her sculptor, softening under his touch, melting on his lips and tongue, reaching and begging for his own thick hard need to claim them.
Once upon a time, he yearned to feel, devour, remember, the woman beyond this creation, the being beyond mere pixels on the screen.