My day was quiet; books read to the sound of rain and snow, writing to the soft strains of Tchaikovsky and Mozart.
But my thoughts were not always on the words in front of me.
There are times that the lines of desire drew my mind’s eye to possibilities.
And there, I found you.
A room lit only by the light reflected off snow and skin; hips, found under a thin veil of clothing.
I think of you utterly still.
A flash of teeth in the dark.
The top of shoulders, of spine; fingers parted, pressing against your stomach as a litany of kisses is pressed into your skin.
This is patience in need,
Because I don’t expect you to be still forever.