Every night before bed my lover’s mouth writes an essay.
Sometimes his tongue swirls words of admiration and lust on my skin.
But last night he read me his heart through the phone. I’d been crying the past few weeks during our calls.
Last night I didn’t sob, “I miss you! I want to come home. My body hungers for your touch.”
Last night I whispered honey fulfilment into his ears. In return he told me not of his day, or traffic or numerous political theories. He told me words like molten chocolate.
Delicious. Decadent. Dripping.
Arousing compliments and orgasmic reassurance. I unabashedly moaned and sighed.
Every night I sleep off on a phone call. I’m grateful to be satiated and satisfied. Adoringly patted to sleep by his chuckles as I deny dozing off. His soothing voice caressing my chubby cheeks.