Apple

I miss her, as a lover, too early stole away into the mist of a newly risen sun.

Pressing deep into my essence I feel her, sense the sapid shiver seep down my spine as she breathes her self through me, the sweetness of her breath stirring my core.
I hear her voice, strong and warm and melodic in my ears, a symphony of sound animat by her.

And at the apex of my existence I cry out for her, in the blinding, rhythmically pleasurably painful here, wishing I was there, in her.
She makes room, keeps a space for me; soft and tight and never gentle. The ferocity of her, the callouses of her that scrape against me, that leave me bruised and wanting–that is the part of her I need. With her I am satisfied; I sink into her warmth until I am lost–there, lost in her, I find myself.

The heavy hollow of my heart beats wildly for her, the bittersweet intensity that only she can soothe. My want for her moves me, the need to breathe her in exhilarates me, an ache that courses through my veins, surging from my core to my fingertips.

I am here and not there, with her, and
though I can see the incomprehensible beauty that is the stars at night and
though the dew settles and does not away before I awaken to know it and
though the sunrise is as much as it ever was and
though there in her I have none of these–she is enough.
Her beauty and being there, in her, is enough.

I miss her, like a lover.

Time stills and I move closer and I anticipate breathing her in and I move slowly into her and I inhale, finally inhale, and she holds me tightly and I gasp the sweet ache of release that only she can summon, the ecstasy that I can only know by missing her and I am jostled into her by one who has forgotten her bitter sweetness and I am home.

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