veneZuela

Precious moments encapsulated in softly written words that remember for me what being in love felt like. Words written in a crooked Cinderella fairytale once upon a time a long, long time ago. Could have been worse I suppose. I might never have made it to the ball.

-me

I don’t feel inspired to write.

About anything.

Not about beauty, about life or the sadness I’m feeling.

All I know is this:

I miss Venezuela…

I miss her hair and the way she always tucks it behind her ears because she thinks that’s the way I like it. I miss her eyes and the way they lighten when I smile and they darken when she kisses me. I miss her hands and the way they’re always seeking me, touching me, needing to connect with my skin. Letting me know that she is there…open and loving and available to me…always a constant and just a touch away.

I miss her deep laughter. That wonderful, all too knowing, secret lesbian laugh. So rich and beautiful and full of mysteries I want so desperately to share with her. I miss the way she takes control of herself when she tells me her stories and reveals who she is to me in a way that I admire and respect. And in those moments when she talks to me, I just want to curl up in her bosom, in her warm tattooed arm, in the passionate intelligent woman that she is…strong and reassuring, bold and confident…and so beautiful. Where I am safe and protected and loved and I just want to disappear inside of her.

I wonder if she knows I think she’s beautiful.

I miss the way she travels across my body, caresses me softly, brushes my nipples, coaxes my legs apart and pushes into me with such intent. My clit pulses as I write this. Yeah, she is that good. She has learned to love her women well. And make no mistake…I am still her woman.

In this moment
She has all of me.
My heart. My soul. My body.
I am hers…

Living in love and all its magical shades of being.