I woke up late this morning, morning obscured by clouds and Saturday calm, delight of good rest, promise of the day. Cycling today, nowhere to go, but go, still, the gently sloping turns around trees, greenery full now to the edge of the road in the height of summer, heat deferred in the grey day, pedals guiding me around these paths familiar, but not, the tinge of unexplicable nostalgia subtle as I go on, honeysuckle here, where the lightning bugs came out two nights ago. I wanted to show you then, but thought of it anyhow, and now, yes, I would tell you about the honeysuckle, dripping fragrance obvious, but I would still say something, I always do. I would say something about the soaring sweetness of it, the tree swing flying high above the meadow, my heart beating fast when you have finally caught me again, when you have pinned me down, and smile because you don’t have to, unbuttoned, the rush, giddy desire suspended, extended, delicious. Silence is sublime in the space it leaves, space to think and dream, and wonder, and ramble in the hazy world of Saturday.
I was thinking, just now, about your shoulders.
I was thinking about you, alone with me, turned back to me while I kneaded your shoulders, sore, exhausted you said as you let your head hang loose, as I felt my nipples harden at the luxury of your muscles, your smooth skin, your naked back.
My hand wanders, you know, wanders down and round, down to your stiff cock, now down to my own slick warmth, my thoughts wandering, your shoulders now over mine, the effort of holding yourself over me, tease, then, the need, your breath soft against my neck, sinking, the initial gratification, then more, want more, yes more, miss you, miss your strength, miss your shoulders, miss this.