As the sun begins its descent, a quiet thrill stirs within me. There is something about the night, something mysterious and unnameable, that breathes new life into every corner of my being. The sun, ablaze in crimson hues, declares to the lovers of the world its final act of passion before surrendering itself to the moon. And as the moon rises, so too does my heartbeat, deep and insistent. My pulse quickens, my body hardens, and throbs with need and desire flares within me like an untamed fire, eager and alive.
By day, I am caught in the stillness of the mundane; my soul is confined to silence. But then comes the night, and with it, you. You, bringing the stirring of life, the quickening of desire, and the pain of yearning. My mind begins to race, and I am reminded once again of the exquisite torment of longing. A carpenter’s knife that carves its poetry into the heart. Everything that loves and waits knows this pain, be it the roses, their petals curling open like parted lips, exhaling a soft, fragrant sigh. Or the sun, with it’s light spilling across the earth, desperate to caress and fill all that it touches. Or even the trees, stretching their arms toward the heavens, tremble as if yearning for a warm embrace. And I, sit by the fire of my heart, anxiously stoking its embers, waiting for you.
You might wonder, at times, what is all this endless talk of desire and intimate passion? Where is the tenderness, the understanding? But be patient and hear me out, my love. Daylight belongs to reason and words. But the night? The night is the domain of movement and action, of the language of skin against skin, of rising heartbeats and tender moans. In the night, love is shown and not spoken. And yet, this winter, I find my hunger for you transcending even the hours of darkness. I want you, hunger for you, crave you, all of you, all the time. For breakfast, for dinner, and every moment in between.
Come to me, my darling. How long must this longing persist? I tell myself I can be patient, that I can simply admire you from afar. But my mind will have none of it. My eyes wish to trace the delicate geography of your form, the curve of your thighs, the swell of your breasts, the gentle arch of your back. Forgive me, if I fail to restrain myself, for you are a living work of art, unlike those encased in galleries, you have shattered your glass casing, and your body demands to be touched. There is music in your very being and I, my love, wish to compose a symphony.
I want you to carry this song of our passion with you wherever you go. When you first awake, I want your eyes to close and your lips to part at the memory of my tongue wrapping around yours as we kiss. When you sip your morning coffee, I want you to shiver at the memory of my lips and breath whispering want all across your neck. I want your nipples to harden and remind you of the soft bites of my teeth and the clasp of your breasts. I want your to toes to curl and you to get wet at the first glance of water, at the thought of my fingers sliding inside you. I want you to forget yourself, when you shake your legs, thinking of my thickness, throbbing and thrusting in and out of you. I want our love to drive you mad with desire until you cannot think of anything but being with me.
And so, my song of passion begins. The moon now shines high and bright and the sky is cloaked in black. The world fades into shadow, and all that remains is my unrelenting hunger for you.
dailybridgerton
blakekathryn
germansingergirl
tangentwithtanner
gummygunk
origamiaround
