Saturday, May 31, 2008

Proof

Proof.

How do I electronically send a copy of a goosebump? Is it possible to fax a replica of a bead of sweat? Will a picture capture the sound of my breath?

When I close my eyes, I hear your voice. I feel your breath on my skin. My fingers become your fingers tracing down my body. Head tipped back, arched, reaching for the you that is not there. My nipples reacting to the touch that isn't you pinching.

Proof.

I've been wet for days. The sweet warm wet of anticipation. Swollen and tender, sensitive to each movement I make. Every time I sit down, every time I stand up. Every time I move my body reminds me of the reaction I have to you.

Proof.

Thoughts of you tie me in knots. Thoughts of you tying me in knots. The inability to escape the wonder, the questions, the unknown. Wondering if you think of the ropes under the bed. Do you think of the candle on the nightstand as more than light? Do you have plans involving ice? Maybe you prefer heat. Maybe you'd be more pleased with the handcuffs. Which ones do you want to play with, which ones will you choose?

Proof.

Somehow, in the midst of the thoughts, lucidity is supposed to creep in and allow cognition. Somehow I'm supposed to know. I'm supposed to determine. I'm given the control to give you proof. Proof of the intangible. Proof of the tactile. Proof of the response to the anticipation. And if I fail?

Poof.