How do you get there, to the part where they are kissing? Does it start with a word, or a whisper, or the softest touch?
Does it matter? All you crave is the aching, the wanting of it, of flesh. A body. Her body, whomever she is. Lust, you might say, or longing. Carnal as it is. Some might call it obscene but you know better. There’s nothing shameful in it, even if it has caused you shame, in the past, when you were confused and mirrors felt like torture.
So begin. Imagine it, the slow rise, the heat, the circling orbits slowly falling in upon each other, until you meet, collide, her hands upon you, tracing the shape of your back, your shoulders, your neck. You can feel her hunger, held back and then not, and then desperate, and you share in it and you pull tight, breath desperately. Her mouth is hot. Her skin is smooth against yours when you push your hands beneath her shirt. She pulls you down and you fall together, cling together, shed your clothes in a tangle, kiss her skin and she yours and you trace each others pleasure with fingers and tongues. You build toward it slowly. Gasping. Trembling. And then it fills you, lifts you up, and you murmur love to one another in the darkness.
And afterward? You lie together and wonder where her body ends and yours begins, and if this, in fact, was the moment that you truly craved. And there are words between you, breathed like sighs, spoken freely, no part of you held back from this person whom you love and whom loves you. And like that sleep finds you, dreamless and sweet.
Tomorrow it carries you, warms in your memory. A glow. A wisp. A fantasy as much of that feeling as anything physical. An impression of what it might be like, what you hope it’s like. Enough to get by. Enough, you hope, until it can be real.