Belated

The sound of cotton on skin is a low, slow rasp. It reminds me of opening a belated Christmas gift; free from the frenzy and rush of being surrounded by presents and pomp, this is to be savored. Hers is a gift unexpected. The touch of our skin as she is slowly unwrapped is a longing ache finally satisfied.

It's often said that the thought is what counts, but we are not thinking at all. Our direction is determined by feeling and by feel, driven by passions barely contained.

Except.

My mind is racing to record every detail. Some moments in life, I've thought to myself, remember this, and here is one of those precious times.

And so, I unwrap this gift slowly. Not in the way our grandmothers would try to preserve paper, but in a way that speaks to how desperately I want to rip and tear. Oh, I want to shred those threads, I want to claw my way to the prize beneath, but I won't. Restraint builds anticipation, and I know we're both beyond ready for what's next. Every sound she makes, every breath, every whimper and low moan is registered, recorded. The word savor isn't adequate, it's not quite enough, but it's the closest thing I can think of to describe this.

The sound of cotton on skin is a low, slow rasp, and the creak of bedsprings is never heard under the sounds we make with each other.

Our gifts, once opened, are given throughout the night