When you are not there,
When you are absent,
Where do I turn?
My voice calls out,
But you are not there to hear me.
My words?
You are not there to read them.
My heart?
It sits alone,
Unable to call out,
Unable to find words.
My hands reach down
And relieve me of my clothes,
My hands reach down
And find my hardness,
Standing naked alone,
My hands become
The conduit for memory,
The surrogate for a friend.
I touch myself,
Hard and proud,
The sensitive head,
The veins of the shaft,
All touched by myself
As I think of the words
We would normally share
When we feel this way.
My hands are my words.
I touch myself,
The first drops of arousal
Gathering at the tip,
All waiting for lips to lick
Them off of me,
As I think of the touch
And taste
We would normally share
When we feel this way.
My hands are your hands.
My hands are your lips.
When you are not here,
When you are not there,
When you are absent,
To whom shall I turn?
I turn to myself,
And bring myself to places
We would normally share
When we feel this way.
But I bring myself there alone,
And in a moment,
Your hands are upon me,
Your lips surround me,
As my sex releases its torrent
Of whiteness,
Its flow of intimacy,
As my nectar covers my hands,
Drops fall to the floor below me
As I stand naked,
Alone.
Absent.
Even when you are absent,
It is still your hands,
They are still your lips,
Even as I stand naked,
Alone.
Even when I cannot find you,
Here or there,
I turn to you.
You,
Who are never absent.
