I find myself sighing dozens of times a day, but nothing will bring her here.
No dreams...no erotic conversations, no heavy masturbation satisfies me. It has gotten to such a difficult point...and, I know she wants me too, which only makes it that much harder. She does the sweetest things for me...calls me out of the blue, sends me flowers, sings to me...oh god, the way she sings. She just keeps reminding me to be patient, and I try. I tell her I'll be good and stop being such a baby about not being able to see her every day, but it really is one of the hardest things I've ever had to go through.
My journal has become an ink-stained testament of the tortured passion I go through with practically every shower. I'm writing again, which is so good...it feels good. I try to record smiles, and random thoughts about life, love, death...even spirituality that I used to let pass me by. I need to keep this passion...this drive.
"REAL" Journal excerpt #1: "Milk me and pour me out to the masses. Giving into the pain as it slowly passes. A muse for all to rape and plunder; Used up and rotting, and left in wonder."
"REAL" Journal excerpt #2: "Just to be able to run my fingers through your hair would turn my heart a darker shade of red..."
"REAL" Journal excerpt #3...from a reeeally great dream: "I know my heart is pounding. You're calm, collected, and wearing a smirk that I still can not get out of my mind. 'Pull up your skirt.' you firmly tell me. I don't hesitate, I do as I'm told. I pull the bottom of my short skirt up over my thighs...You tell me to bend over, and I do..." From there it gets quite steamy and that is for my reading pleasure only.
So obviously I've been writing, and yesss much of it is lusty scribbles, but not all of it. One thing that remains constant with me though is that I'm so sensual. I can't help it...and lust, love, and desire fascinate and inspire me. I am an artist and she is my muse.
ME: and how do you need me? Her: like earth needs the sun
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bois_inside) wrote,
indescribable
