Writing to exhale

    

It had been a while since the last time his skin met her body.   He always looked forward to their rendezvous, possibly more than she did.  These secret gatherings served as some sort of catharsis for him, as for her? Let’s just say the way he maneuvered her body made for an interesting manuscript, should one ever need a detailed retelling of what went on.

Their synergy was impeccable whence they went at it.  The way he handled her made her exclaim words no one had ever made her say.  He especially liked that she could always understand his inner most thought and she would always reserve any sort of judgment, she simply went with what he said.  To think that something that had started as a simple escape from reality had become almost necessary to do as often as possible.  She, as quiet as she was, could handle herself rather admirably with words; something that only drew him closer to her. 

The lengths of such meetings were never an issue for either of them.  She never complained of it being too short or too fast.  He never minded the way she moved.  It was quite simply a natural match.  Even when she rested against him in silence or when he had nothing else to say they knew there will be a next time. 

There was never any pressure exerted on each other by each other, the only urge was to have one another wrapped around the other.  At the end of it all, the only evidence was that white sheet that no longer was. 

This, my friends is the intimate relationship every writer has with their pen.  The evidence of their affair is always found on that white sheet that to some seems stained but to each other it is passionately engraved forever.