Insomnia

Sleep never comes easily to me. Waking hours spent in dark night's solitude have been part of my life ever since I remember. As a child I spent countless nights under the warm and only protection of my bedcovers, a glowing wand and a row of equally countless books my only companions. Growing up I still sought the quiet anonymity my cavern under the bedcovers provided. A cherished respite from the harshness outside and a safe place to slowly but thoroughly discover the pleasures of the body.

I really could not give any particular reason for this insomnia, if you like to call it that. Maybe my life just follows a different rhythm, just as it has followed a path different from what I had once wanted. And I cannot tell, if I love it or hate it. But for the most part I do treasure these hours, where time vanishes in the twilight. Where no unwanted visitors, no annoying floo calls will disturb private thoughts echoing through empty rooms. Where silence and loneliness come as a blessing and dreams invade my mind like waves crashing on steep rocks and gentle shores.

Tonight I do not sleep because I came to share these precious hours. Share them with a woman who has been part of my life ever since she entered my world at the tender age of eleven. She has been in the thoughts of my sleepless nights countless times, as insufferable as she insisted on conducting herself. She has been in the fantasies of my sleepless nights countless times as well, as of late.

And even though early morning has come and gone, brightening to a clear autumn day, my eyes have yet to close in sleep. And she is still with me, sleeping beside me, breathing softly as if in peace in these times of war. Am I responsible for this? I don't know, for this is the first time she'll wake up with me. Twenty-four hours ago I had never even touched her once, she's just been a beautiful face with a beautiful mind for so long.

She's curled up on her right side, facing me. The sheets are not really managing to cover her form, her beautiful, delicate form. And with hungry eyes I trace the outline of her legs, a curve of hip, derriere, beneath the dark linen. Her back is exposed, as are her shoulders, her arms, her breasts. And I am much too selfish in my indulgence to pull up the sheets. Though I would if she were cold. But her skin is glowing, radiating warmth and light. So visible in these minutes of transcendent skies. On my tongue I can still feel the memory of her skin. Last night I got drunk on the taste of her lips quivering under mine, and I stilled my hunger on her waiting breasts. Swelling beauties, so full and exquisitely matched to her slender body. They have never known a man's attention, the gentle sucking, the licking and biting, the worshipping.

She was facing me last night as well. Replacing my view of the moon outside with the longing in her eyes. Opening her legs to me as if she were a curtain, yielding to the gentle blowing breeze of a last warm evening, ripe with the scents of harvest. And harvest I did, feasting upon the seeds that had been planted the second we touched and had come to full bloom in a season of only a few hours.

Still, for now she sleeps, and in spite of knowing better, I hope that her dreams are pleasant after a night of tender love.

How she desired me, I may never know, why she came to me last night, she hasn't told me. There was no need for explanation then, I don't think there is now. Will she leave me when she wakes? Yes. Will she come to me again, or let me come to her? I don't know. There is no need for these questions either. But they are the reason that my eyes are still open. Looking at her, taking in the body and soul I touched last night, for I do know that I might never touch her again.