And perhaps I was calling you on every single day of the year subconsciously. There was an unrelenting chime in the air, a love attraction frequency of high desire on the balloon of my aura and on the ointment I placed on the nude of my wrists with your presence on it. You changed over night with a hunger that consumed your own calmness and forced out your desperation at the temple of my being where I looked down on you for once my sweet giant.
But I remember being with this other guy, my temporary high in the backseat of a car and there a moonlit sky shining through the glass and the police and the skunks of the night patrolled both making their own rounds. I was with an obsessive mature man posing his green werewolf eyes on the unclothed parts of my skin where he seared it with established longing for my youth. We made out heavy covering the light of the moon with fog; our faces were flushed, our jaws wide open and our tongues jolting of wild electricity.
And he had this magical way of knowing how to bring me closer to him with just his fingertips on the ends of my hair. Oh how he caressed my hair like a woman with softness like strolling with minimal clothing through a garden of delicate flower petals to feel the sensations of nature. He was finding his way down, my shirt in custody by the mass of my breasts and he nibbled the entire space of my stomach grabbing onto the sides of my curves. And I shook and shook in pleasure similar to the first time I received foreplay when I was twelve but I watched his own saliva strings at the corner of his mouth being overran by happiness.
Perhaps I was calling you on every single day of the year subconsciously as I do even now. It’s why I feel you bother and visit me in my dreams on most nights. Bet it’s why you called me at 4am, your maniacal self because just as I do, you feel me there.