The words they escape me, elude me, confound me as if language itself has refused me, forbidding my entry, casting me out to the wet and the cold and the shadows, banishing me to the silent periphery, coercing this confrontation not with the mind but instead with the body, with the body, with the body, with its meat and its bones and its blood coursing, pounding, with the body, with my body, with its pulse, its rhythm, its yearnings base, primal and erotic, with this body, with this flesh, with this body I thee worship, with this flesh bare, exposed and hungering, with this flesh lusting, with this flesh needing, with this flesh riven, undone, moments from its devastation, with its flesh that weeps, that seeps, that soaks, that fills the room with my sweet, pungent femininity, with this body, with this flesh, with its desire, with its desire violent, lawless, on this night unendurable, with its desire to be opened, to be revealed, to be savoured and devoured by mouth and tongue and hands and glans thick, hard and burning, with its desire to be touched, to be embraced, to be released and then imprisoned, to be at one with a considered, languid sensuality, with its desire for man, for the power only he can bear upon me, with its desire for man, for him, for you, for you to see me, to look down on me, to drown in my gaze as you sink yourself, wrap yourself, find yourself in, around, about me.

The words will not come. The body will not follow. There is only numbness in their place. There is only the contrary longing to exorcise this desire while clinging to it for dear, electrifying life. There is only the bittersweet craving for a man whose intensity and magnetism, whose complex eroticism excites, revives, terrifies. There is only the dull, aching recognition of an impossible possibility.

Words are not enough. My words are not enough. They pale in the face of yours, in the face of you. They are small, paltry, shamefully inadequate. My mind, it can not tame them, it can not craft them; it can no longer articulate the excess, the intensity, the passion that threatens to consume, to corrupt, to craze.

All that remains, all I have left is my body. This flesh, this blood, this bundle of nerves, this collection of freckles dotted along fair skin. This body. My body. The body that writes my desire. The body that longs to speak its own language, its truth, that aches to merge its nakedness with your own, that begs for your possessing touch, that calls for your seductive kiss, that screams for your sweet invasion, that seeks to know you, know of you, about you, as it has known and written of no other.

We give of ourselves through the word, through the prose, on the screen, on the page, through the lips and the tongue murmured sweetly into the waiting ear.

We give of ourselves through the word, through the needed expression of the ache, through the fissures of pain and of bliss, in the bright of day, in the veil of the night.

We give of ourselves through the word, through the turn of the phrase that inflames, through the writing that arouses desires on the surface and hidden deep within.

We give of ourselves through the word, through verse as skin and bone and as flesh, longing to be sensually touched and caressed, yearning to be savagely fucked and set free.

And as we give of ourselves through the word, we give of ourselves through the body. The body, my body, his body. The bodies that give, the bodies that take, the bodies that lust and merge and devour.

The bodies that ardently follow the word.

When my own darkness descends, when I can no longer make sense of my place in the world, I find comfort in the shadows of others. In the words that speak of love and loss and passion and pain. In the words that light up the screen and ink the page. In the words that tear me apart and put me back together.

She has read his words several times over in a vain attempt to regain her breath, her composure, her sense of this time and place and the intensity suddenly spiralling wildly through her body.

Unfolding before her, they paint a vivid picture of his emerging desire and hardening flesh as well as the craving to plunder her mouth, cunt and the very essence of her desiring force.

She recognises his carnal drives, and the shadows in which they often seem to lurk, in an instant. In them she sees her own, rising up, taking over her rational mind and needy form as his cock and beautiful face and body become the centre of her own sexual imaginings.

But there is something more in him, something that already sets him apart, something he encapsulates in a short string of simple words. These words, innocent and benign in their own right, have been placed together by him in a way that tears open her sexual soul.

The thoughts and feelings that assail his mind in the dead of night and the obscenely early hours of the morning as he strokes himself, smearing the precum dripping from his swollen head, circulate around her. Her wants, her needs, her obsessions. And the very things she hasn’t experienced but will one day grow to love, will one day be unable to live without. The very things he can give her, take from her, as master, as slave, as man, as lover.

And because no one has ever dared express a yearning to know her in such an intimate and yet primal way, to delve into the depths of her darkness and her light, she undresses in front of the screen, her naked form illuminated by the artificial glow, and begins her exploration with his words as her witness.

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.

The pulsation of my body, the flow of my words.

Together again, they overtake me, they wake me in the dead of night, gnawing, grabbing, demanding. Begging for the page, the pen, the cursor, the screen. Begging for skin and heat and lips and hands and hardness.

Open and ready, I surrender.