Laying here upon cashmere sheets, thinking and waiting. When I close my eyes and let my fingertips trail up my thighs, I think of you. And as I drift into another realm, between this space and time, I imagine so deeply that my touch is your own. There is you and then there is I. My lust for you burns so mercilessly and I have yet to know exactly why I have become so vulnerable to even the very thought of you. Maybe you fascinate me. Maybe you bring me to a place in which I cannot fathom... Even as I exist within reality that is ours. So I dream of you. So I endlessly immerse myself in fantasies of you. But will I tell you? Will I give you the sheer pleasure of knowing this? ...No. Because what is yours, is yours. What is mine, is mine. Why am I going to let you consume me? Because your tongue is intoxicating? Or because your words are so satisfying? I am on my knees now. Begging and pleading you to want me. "Nobody will indulge you like this. Where are you going to find another lover like me?" That is far-fetched, is it not? Or is it conceited of me to think so? Perhaps you believe that... Have I deceived you? Has this demon made you denounce your faith? You will never understand. Not me. Not your own being. And that is fine...