40 in a few weeks, I admire your body with great lust. I wonder what’ll become of me when I’m your age. Your tall frame, firm butt; your strong arms. You seem to be able to carry me around effortlessly, it’d put some of my former, much younger lovers to shame. But I like your eyes the most I think. Or maybe your dimpled chin. There’s a distinct character to them, distinctly, “L”.
I like that you’ve been shedding your inhibitions with me over time. It’s hot that you suggest we do it in your kitchen and then the dinner table (despite my suspicion we may break it) and then the couch and so and so forth...we’ve only got two more spots left, three if we’re feeling particularly exhibitionist.
Yet somehow it isn’t about the sex, it isn’t about the orgasm.
With you there is a dangerous kind of intimacy, one that’ll end in great heartbreak for me. I know it. I do. I’ve allowed myself to become so vulnerable with you. I can’t control myself. I can’t control my feelings for you. You’ve been bringing out an instinct in me which I didn’t even know I had in me: affection, without expectation.
Yes sure, I like it immensely that you always hold me post coitus, stay inside me for long after and we talk and talk and talk. I like it immensely when you fall asleep infront of the television with your head on my lap. I like waking up to your text first thing in the morning.
I’m getting so used to feeling this good. I’m getting so used to...you.
Sometimes you can be so warm, that I forget to raise my guard. My walls dissipate every time we kiss, we touch.
I request only one thing from my universe: be gentle when you break my heart in the future, please, be gentle.
