Late at night, I toss and turn — the blankets tangled around my legs. My head throbs, my eyes burn with the fatigue of long sinful nights. Each inhalation stays trapped in my throat, building up into a thick stew like the humidity of a New Orleans’ summer day. The very thought of you brings a fresh wave of wetness to my Lacey black panties. The pair I have worn for two days now because they smell of you — of us. It’s impossible not to reach out and search for you in the space beside me.
It’s empty.
My Cunt yearns for a human touch not of my own. Sticky sweat between my thighs. The scent of who I am rising up into the stifling hot night. The smell of me — musky, dark, sweet, creamy with desire — surrounds me and I give in to my needs. I parked my knees, I spread my thighs, for a breeze, a touch, that does not come. I try to keep my bitten and chapped lips closed, but they open to let out the wet summer tears that stay trapped in my throat. A silent cry, a sound that only I can hear, the torture of loneliness night after night. I turn my head, my hair damp with sweat, and I look for you in the space beside me.
There’s nothing.
My trembling hand — the hand that lovingly caresses my soft breast — I imagine your lips softly caressing my nipples. Your lips awakening sensations from years past — of small mouths latching on for sustenance and drinking a part of me that can never be returned. Your lips remind me of softer, more gentler days. I crave for the liquid me to pass through your loving lips and down your parched throat — quenching the hunger and thirst you have for my body. … For me. Maybe, if I give you a part of me you can’t return — you’ll stay. I whisper your name into the space beside me.
You do not answer.
My hand, all 5 fingers spread open wide, cover my mother’s belly. My fingertips press into my skin and I imagine your teeth nipping and nibbling and loving. My fingertips meander down and trace through my course dark hair, a neatly trimmed meadow of sensuality, each blade of grass, each small not quite formed curl, is a promise of mysteries to come, a playground of sensation and of sensuality that transitions from a mother’s decades of lived experiences to a freer spirit, a formidable soul, just waiting to witness her own awakening. Again, I whisper your name into the space beside me.
You still do not answer.
My unwavering hand, like the notched arrow of a gallant knight, aims straight and true to the very center of who I am — the core of where all my truth and beauty lie. With bated breath, my fingertips rest at my slitted opening, pausing like a blind person who has come to the end of a braille page. Before I continue with my journey, before I turn the page and see what comes next, I bitterly jerk my hand away, furiously grab at my mother’s belly, a part of me I can never love. I clench my fist and angrily slam it down in the space beside me.
You aren’t there.
Quietly …
Impatiently …
And even explosively at times,
I try mightily to hold space in my heart for the beauty I deserve. The passion, the desire, and all the spaces in between that make life an adventure. And yet, as dawn breaks and the morning sun glows in the eastern skies, I reach over to the space beside me.
It’s cold.
-- LM D'Lishes💋
TheBlindWriter 