The Wholesome Satyr

As you sleep, the rain falls in a tender torrent - much like the volley of words from a prospective lover you could ignore if you wanted to, or pursue the character of, when in a ruminative mood.

Yet, as you sleep, single cloth clinging to your form, falling in heaps as you stretch and turn - and toss perhaps; a non-intrusive survey of words prepares to meet you a few hours hence. A letter, a missive, an ill-timed yet apt riposte to what you may permit. Guided in part by what the author in eager expressions of need lets slip through, and controlled in greater measure by what the receiver of such tidings allows to be revealed.Yet, and in all sincerity, written so that when you awaken, shun Morpheus' somnolent snare and rid yourself of all vestige of last night's dream, you find some evidence that a stranger had strewn in those sleep-tossed hours that you were away, scintilla tinged with the cyan of stardust and the tourmaline of emboldened temerity.Words that remind you that you were being thought of; that one stayed awake since the harlequin-ward of emotions, which so tight-fisted knot the chest when you leave, cause the unsaid to be shed in violent gurgles; to splash and clumsily spill onto these bits and bytes of pings and pixels.

As you sleep, the erotic tugs at each crevice of the mind; and the prowess one can only in silent groans and thrusts express, dangles in lewd images of you and me and the intimacy denied us - that which you could scorn or eschew at will.

Tonight, as you sleep - skin, smooth moistened by the chill of the monsoons, hair asunder and fragrant, there is this yearning to wake you up using every licentious device the mind can conjour up, to whisper words only the night can invent, to gently stir next to you so that you are drawn to return to this, the only sanctum we know as yet......

........and outside it rains.