Too bad I know your password and you don't know mine.
This is Nicole updating on Joe's behalf, minus his permission. What an accident!
In case anyone was curious, Joe is great, I like Joe a lot. His name looks foreign when I type it too much.
With distance there is always unwarranted patience, a sobering pennance, the swelling of internal ache. God. There is nothing quite so holy as touching you.
It's like a remission in affection, a lapse of concrete emotion; the only obstruction should be our ribs & teeth. I will sink into you, absorb you, fill my veins and my bones with you, pull you onto me and drown myself in your mouth, tangle myself in your arms, your legs. Your atrium. Your aorta.
Yours is a noticable absence to be abhorred by all; the world is stripped of the charm & grace we exude in its presence. We are youthful, classic & ageless, blank with the perplexity of emotion and so beguiling in our lascivious gesticulations. We transcend time, denoting each overlooked passage with a curt nod between silky kisses.
I miss the underappreciated aestheticism of your body, so lean and vibrant with underlying agility: the taut skin pulled over sharp hipbones, the delicate curve venturing from neck to shoulder, the prominence of bold blue veins filling your arms and legs with the blood your heart collects & redistributes. There is, also, the soft curls gently straying from your scalp, the tender throat collecting quiet moans, the sleek limbs, so treacherous by appearance when they are so strong and all-encompassing in embrace.
I have commissioned you as my architect; your hands sculpt a modern masterpiece, a contemporary design shook from its unsteady pillars & reconstructed on a stable foundation. Your hands have made my body full of worship, smoothing over the cracks and fault lines, caressing what is now impeccable structure & poise. It is not enough for you to make me beautiful, no! You pull the shutters, open my windows and doors, fill me with your voice, the resounding echo of your sweet praise and incalcuably veritable ideology. I am your church; fill me with gospel. Show me what it's like to believe in something other than nothing. Show me what it's like to live for something greater than myself.
You've instilled your unintrusive philosophy in me, revived these decaying organs and showed them how to work again, how to work better and more efficiently than they ever have before. You set a course, mapped it along the length of my body, and set to your careful explorations; more than my body, you've reached my heart, my mind. You've pried the locks and seen into every facet, seen a gem in me to be admired from every perspective, in every available light.
I tend to tremble with love for you, recounting every miniscule detail of your flawless existence. There is never a feeling so infinitely gratifying that leaves me so temporarily satisfied; it's like, I must have more of you, everywhere, at all times! God, god. I love you more than I love being alive. And it looks so beautiful in text.
I ache to brush those unwarranted curls from your face, hold your hands so tightly in mine for such a great amount of time that our fingers are bound by perspiration! I miss telling you everything. I miss the focus on your breathing, pulling you onto your elbows and kissing you with a sudden, renewed fervor and then pushing you against the bed again, and again, and again and again. I miss making love to you.
Worse, and most painful: I miss looking into your eyes and seeing the future. I see everything in you. I see who you are, and who you're going to be. I see what you've denied, embraced. I see myself. I see forever. And it is electric.
I love you, blue eyes. I'm yours for as long as you want me.
In case anyone was curious, Joe is great, I like Joe a lot. His name looks foreign when I type it too much.
With distance there is always unwarranted patience, a sobering pennance, the swelling of internal ache. God. There is nothing quite so holy as touching you.
It's like a remission in affection, a lapse of concrete emotion; the only obstruction should be our ribs & teeth. I will sink into you, absorb you, fill my veins and my bones with you, pull you onto me and drown myself in your mouth, tangle myself in your arms, your legs. Your atrium. Your aorta.
Yours is a noticable absence to be abhorred by all; the world is stripped of the charm & grace we exude in its presence. We are youthful, classic & ageless, blank with the perplexity of emotion and so beguiling in our lascivious gesticulations. We transcend time, denoting each overlooked passage with a curt nod between silky kisses.
I miss the underappreciated aestheticism of your body, so lean and vibrant with underlying agility: the taut skin pulled over sharp hipbones, the delicate curve venturing from neck to shoulder, the prominence of bold blue veins filling your arms and legs with the blood your heart collects & redistributes. There is, also, the soft curls gently straying from your scalp, the tender throat collecting quiet moans, the sleek limbs, so treacherous by appearance when they are so strong and all-encompassing in embrace.
I have commissioned you as my architect; your hands sculpt a modern masterpiece, a contemporary design shook from its unsteady pillars & reconstructed on a stable foundation. Your hands have made my body full of worship, smoothing over the cracks and fault lines, caressing what is now impeccable structure & poise. It is not enough for you to make me beautiful, no! You pull the shutters, open my windows and doors, fill me with your voice, the resounding echo of your sweet praise and incalcuably veritable ideology. I am your church; fill me with gospel. Show me what it's like to believe in something other than nothing. Show me what it's like to live for something greater than myself.
You've instilled your unintrusive philosophy in me, revived these decaying organs and showed them how to work again, how to work better and more efficiently than they ever have before. You set a course, mapped it along the length of my body, and set to your careful explorations; more than my body, you've reached my heart, my mind. You've pried the locks and seen into every facet, seen a gem in me to be admired from every perspective, in every available light.
I tend to tremble with love for you, recounting every miniscule detail of your flawless existence. There is never a feeling so infinitely gratifying that leaves me so temporarily satisfied; it's like, I must have more of you, everywhere, at all times! God, god. I love you more than I love being alive. And it looks so beautiful in text.
I ache to brush those unwarranted curls from your face, hold your hands so tightly in mine for such a great amount of time that our fingers are bound by perspiration! I miss telling you everything. I miss the focus on your breathing, pulling you onto your elbows and kissing you with a sudden, renewed fervor and then pushing you against the bed again, and again, and again and again. I miss making love to you.
Worse, and most painful: I miss looking into your eyes and seeing the future. I see everything in you. I see who you are, and who you're going to be. I see what you've denied, embraced. I see myself. I see forever. And it is electric.
I love you, blue eyes. I'm yours for as long as you want me.