I have grown accustomed to my love's presence here in our home. Not dependent. Accustomed. I love his presence here in our home. I am often aware of him, of what room he's in, of what he does, or what he needs.
I reach for him at night. Often, I am abed first, sometimes hours before he'll crawl beneath the covers. I know when he enters or leaves the room, though, even in my sleep. When he climbs into bed, I inch close, rest my head on his shoulder, feel his arm wrap around me, and am deeply content.
There, in his circle, the circle of his arms, I feel loved, cherished, protected.
I love to run my hands over his body...his hard planes, smooth, soft skin. I love how my touch can arouse him. I love making love to him, slow and sweet, swift and insistent, always deeply in the moment. I love the way he buries himself in me.
I love his scent, often leaning in and breathing deeply, exhaling and breathing him in again.
I am a glutton for his touch, always greedy for more. With his hands, he tells me he loves me. I do not feel judged...all the flaws of my body are there for him to see and feel, but he does not. He makes me feel sexy, beautiful, wanted, worshiped.
Loving him is exhilarating, exhausting, a sweetness that is at once craved and overwhelming.
He is away at the moment, out of town. I miss him. The house is empty without him to fill it with his sounds, his motion, his presence. The days are long, the nights longer, without him to help fill them. My body misses his.
I am glad for this ache, for this absence. It will be all the better when he's home again...and really, he's not gone. The daughter I carry within me, the child growing slowly in my womb, is half him, her movement a reminder that wherever he may be, we are home and he will return to us.
Still...I'm missing him...missing his touch, his kisses, his tongue, his love, his fire...there's an emptiness that will remain until he is home to fill it once again.