Your words have made me homeless for they sing on the wind, flash in the waves, force my breath inwards, jolt my heart. Where you are you do not say, yet here you appear in old fashioned pen and ink on a page of my notebook and cry out my name.
Why can that be so in a woman with a mind such as yours, who has read all the books I have read but with sensitivity and far greater understanding; who knows my inner thoughts, my predilections and peccadilloes, who hands me down her shawl of inspiration.
How you flaunt yourself, provocative as ever, presenting glimpses of your pelt and thighs as smooth as porcelain, sending thrills spilling down my spine, lifting hair and flesh and conferring tactile pleasures on my fingertips.
There is so little that I know about you, mysterious stranger of my fiction, for as a phosphorescent thought you remain with me as yet untouchable.
Today only am I your lover and you must know that by tomorrow I will have matched your strengths with some one tall and dark and even stranger that yourself.