Reaching

It’s anticipatory.
Reminiscent.
A reflex action in my not-quite-dream state.

My hand curves just _so_ when I extend it through the graylight veil between sleep and wakefulness, reaching for you.

For a very specific part of you.

Eyes closed, body curled under tousled covers, pillows bunched beneath my head, my hand roams and quests of its own volition, daring the cold of the autumn morning air, seeking your skin.

Seeking —

The heat and throb of dreamy desire, thick and warm in heavy morning arousal, stutter-jumping with your heartbeat against my palm…

The sh-shush and slide, the sharp intake hiss of breath through teeth and shudder-harsh exhale, the thumpthumpthump of blood rushing through my veins, pounding in my ears…

…is not real.

What’s real is the sliver of pre-dawn piercing through the fog of my mind, glaring me awake.

And in my tired-drunk cotton cloud justfivemoreminutes rousing, I realize – drowsily, delightedly – that I am aroused.

It’s like a don’t-tell secret, this realization.

And as I begin my day, I carry the belly-flutter weight of my secret, heavy and low, in the pocket of flesh between my thighs.