Still

 My heart still beats faster whenever I think about you. I still get butterflies. 

February Rain

To The Lady on the Train,

I woke early this morning with the sounds of a surprisingly heavy February rain hitting the slant roof over my head. I can hear the steady drip of a still frozen and overflowing gutter outside. The water will be pooling by the fence where it always does in a heavy rain. 

Tha thaw has come sudden and the additional rains will make for flooded yards and streets. 

I lay in bed for a while wondering if you are listening to the rain too. I wonder what the rain sounds like where you are. I wonder if the sounds of your house under rain still sound new to you, or if they have now become familiar. 

I can usually hear the early morning trains, the subway trains in the north and the big trains from the south. Not this morning though. This morning it is the steady patter of rain. What I long to hear is your voice in my ear, your mouth close to feel your warm breath on my cheek.     

I want to hear the sigh of contentment and feel the arching of your back. I want to feel you turning as my mouth trails your spine and around to your hips. I want the scent of you to fill me and to feel the tension of desire under the softness of your skin.  I want to taste you. I want to feel the twisting, a tightness, the release, and the throbbing when it comes. 

I want to disappear under the covers with you, my head on your thighs. I want the rains on the roof to drown out the world. 

The Man in the Station

Beginnings

 To The Lady on the Train,

I can remember the first time walking with you to the train station at the end of the day. This was the beginning of a routine that for me, was anything but routine.

I remember that as we walked that my feed did not touch ground and that my heart raced. 

I remember we talked, though I cannot remember what we spoke of but I do remember your eyes each time they met mine. I remember that your eyes were dark yet bright: just one of the contradictions that you manage to hold so effortlessly. 

I remember a brief kiss of goodbye just before you passed through the gate to your train. 

And then I remember feeling the wave of a sensation that would become all too familiar to me - missing you. 

And so there it was. It was the realization that whatever happened or in whatever manner things might play out, without you I could never feel quite all put together; that without you something of myself is missing.

That was the beginning of missing you.

The Man in the Station

Paradise