I crave the everyday, I say. I say I want to turn in the night and find your hand when I reach for it, want to feel your presence throughout the day in the small shared moments. Yes, it is true.

And still, I want more, the desire that is already there. Life is topsy-turvy, easy to find the exotic. Some feel the erotic is extinguished by the mundane passing through life, the daily tasks and petty delays that wear on us. But I have never found this, never in my life.

Perhaps it is a function of my chaotic, unsure past that domesticity excites me. No, I do not crave the burden of chores, cluttered life, kitchen floor, commuter rail morning and night… but the sharing of it all, yes. The cut grass, the acidic scent of your sweat, and mine, the hair once finely perfumed, now tinged with onions, vanilla, diesel fuel, the day, the life, blended, blurred into wonder. Your touch makes me ache, aware of the absence, not an absence now, but a gap, a wide desire itself.

The sweet relief, the stuff of songs

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