My Dearest Alex
I must start by pointing out that sweet talk and progress politics won't get you off the hook with me.
But your impossibly generous and unbearably sweet incomplete list might. MIGHT. Without being too generous in my use of adjectives, it is quite possibly thee most flattering thing I have ever read about myself. And having reread it AND reread it, I have a declaration of my own. To quote you darling, just to put it out there, this is not exactly a list and it most certainly is not incomplete.
Being away from you this past month has reminded me of one thing. Or perhaps several. But assured me of something for sure. There are things that absolutely set me on fire about you and if I WERE writing you a list, which I'm not, these would factor unashamedly highest on the not-a-list:
That is; YOUR shoulder to waist ratio.
Your waist, on its own.
Your shoulders. Both of them (I hope you're smiling that wicked toothy grin by now).
The liquid gold colour of your skin no matter what angle the sun light might touch it from. Yes, gold. I know about these things. I am a prince after all. I think.
The dimples in your shoulders, where my fingers fit perfectly when you're pressing me into your bed.
The dimples in the arch of your lower back. That are speckled with fine sweat when you have completely wrecked me. Yes. I said it.
The arch of your lower back. Where my hand fits perfectly should they ever come to rest off of the dips and valleys of your glorious body.
The way I can vanish behind your body and be eclipsed by you, when you work me apart.
Your perfect, long fingered hands, seeking mine out, to hold them in place above my head as soon as you've got me on my back.
Your ability to kiss away any fear or concern I don't even realise I have, with that insufferably & sweetly wicked tongue and annoyingly soft mouth of yours.
Oh yes. That mouth. THAT stupendous mouth. The places it has travelled and the profanities it has whispered and panted and begged into my own mouth, into the nape of my neck, behind my ear when your face is buried into hair.
The landscape of your incredible long and divine throat with it's protruding veins and Adams apple.
The rock hard and perfectly taunt mound of an arse of yours.
Frankly speaking, I could lay here all night and recount the pit stops on your body I miss tonight Alex and the freckles I long to kiss-count with my mouth. Instead I am forced to revist my own collection (attached for your own admiration because f ❤️ck f🤍ck F💙CK) of this 'Alex terrain' that I have explored. And so in your absence, until I can melt into your arms and have you take up space inside me again, have your soul along side mine again, I am counting the hours darling.
I could use your warm laugh and soft & forgiving amber eyes tonight. The smell of your bed-pressed messy curls and the way they feel when I slip my fingers through them. My soul needs the familiarity and comfort of yours sweetheart, my souls yang.
I will count the milliseconds and seconds and minutes and hours until you can scoop me up against you again.
Tell me you miss me too or I'll quite simply stop breathing.
With every fibre of my being and morsel of my soul sweetheart, I love you.
H xxx
