Looking out my window high above the streets, I watch the swirling white clouds of snow against the pink sky. It is a blizzard, they say, and my legs are still cold from walking in it earlier, my hair still wet on the edges not covered by my hat. I watch, watch, and think that somewhere I see you trudging down the sidewalk, your cap bobbing along as you make your way here, to my front door.
Yes, it is snowing still, still will be as the wind picks up and roars, and you are here now, here, your fingers cold as they grasp greedily at my hair, my face. I push you away now, want you to wait for better things.
I want to go back out into that raging storm with you, walking with you the two of us out in the state of emergency, walking down streets deserted and cold, and the warmth of you right there and yet unattainable, beside me like a candle’s worth of light and heat until we can come home and light a fire inside. It is the anticipation that is the most delicious, perhaps, the waiting and the smile, the postponement and the vague uncertainty of every moment that I cannot touch you.
I want you, yes. I feel you in every moment beneath warm covers on a winter morning. I feel your hands as I dreamily run my own hands down my body, down to satisfy the intense longing I feel in that slumberful daze of early day, my sheets wet with my own excitement as I grind into my fingers that tease, as you tease, that plunge in and move out, as you might, as you might following some sleepless night when you watch in the new light to see if perhaps my eyes might open, when you wait to move closer until you think I might want to wake up. I want you, in dreams, in daylight, your cock tense and ravenous for my touch, a sigh, and snow below, beyond, on a quiet December morning.