I Am a Hopeless Romantic

I know his body well. Now it's only in pictures that I can't stop looking at even though I know I should. His smile is handsome. His face is perfect. I remember how he felt under my hands, his broad shoulders, the muscles of his arms, the hair on his long legs. I loved touching him. His hands strong along my neck, my waist, the small of my back, my breast. His fingers in my hair, he loved my hair, especially when it was crazy. Memories of the way his skin felt against mine are painful and wonderful. How wonderful it was to be the ob<x>ject of his affection. How wonderful to be able to express my affection completely uninhibited. How wonderful to be completely wrapped up with his body around me, loving me and protecting me! The slickness between us as we moved against each other. His kiss, the roughness of his face against mine, wanting me, searching, until there was no beginning or end, just us. One. No wonder I feel incomplete, exposed, alone. No wonder I am guarding my last exposed raw nerve. I long to deaden the pain but I fear losing my feelings completely. My other half is a picture, a memory, a dream.