I know she is watching.
She waits there, for me to speak, for me to ache for her approach.
The floorboards creak softly under her footsteps, her soles softer than silk. Closer. Closer.
My arms reach out, hands grasping at nothing, to find her.
A hand. Both hands. So delicate and smooth, but so fragile and cool. Thumbs pressing, blood pulsing, massaging my palms, her touch consoles me.
In the dark, she is my light.
“I am here. And my love for you is strong.”
A voice of a heavenly being, like butter on the tongue. Sweet, and melting the heart.
Her hands squeeze, and I release one to touch her face. I stroke, gently, what I presume to be her cheek.
A warm palm on the back of my hand, delicate fingers tracing the veins, feeling the rush of blood just under the skin.
“My handsome boy…” she whispers, caressing my hair, which I imagine to be dark and soft.
I cannot help myself. I hold her, whimpering like a pathetic puppy. Guiding her wrists, I plead her to do it again, for me to feel the sense of reality in a world of discombobulation.
Her fingertips massage the scalp, relaxing and stroking the hair, before her lips touch my forehead.
In the storm, she is my calm.
I try to force myself awake from a never-ending trance, but I cannot succeed.
A small sigh, and the feeling of helplessness intensifies. She looks, searching through the fog to no avail. I turn my head in shame. I cannot bear to face the humiliation.
A hand, on my chest, rising with each breath, popping buttons and opening the crisp shirt, until the last one gives way.
My head lowers, in confusion.
Why does she still wish to touch me?
“My boy is so beautiful…”
A sensation of skin upon skin, trailing from my neck down. She lingers at the stomach, stroking, tracing the muscles.
“So strong, so gentle and kind.”
A rush of warmth, not least to my cheeks, and I know that I blush.
I pant, reaching for her, but cannot hold anything. My fingers touch nought but emptiness. Searching for meaning in an endless void.
And she will rescue me.
She holds my wrists, guiding my hands to her body. I feel the curve of her hips, the supple flesh of her stomach.
I need not my sight to know that she is divinely beautiful.
A light weight in my lap, and her warmth is just inches away. Her hand sneaks inside my shirt, rubbing my chest, making me shudder in guilty pleasure.
On my neck, she strokes the tense muscle, feeling the pulse of my circulation, the blood rushing through my body. I feel too warm, but it can be ignored.
My hand is guided once again, and placed upon skin, to feel the beating of her heart. I lower my head, not quite staring towards it, feeling the strength of the pulse.
“My dear boy…”
I feel her breath on my lips, and the warmth as they connect with that of my woman. Only then can I feel equal.
I run my fingers through her hair, holding her in our kiss. My tongue glides along her own, and I know that she intends to be mine.
In my blindness, she is my eyes.