Jet Lag

After more than a week, my body continues to lag half a day behind craving the cold and the sleet and grey clouds hanging low and the 76 to Waterloo, my daily view of St Paul’s and the long meandering walks from Ludgate to Fleet to the Strand and the sea of dashing men with that certain sparkle in their eye, the hustle and bustle and crowds overflowing and Penn and Picasso and Matisse, cinnamon porridge and builder’s tea and the Turkish pastry shop up the road brimming with the goodies I love.

And strong arms firmly pressing a warm body against me.

On a Winter's Day

After months of teasing each other out, after week after week of slowly shedding the veil, after days upon days of passionate intensity, after hours of needing and aching for each other's scent, taste, skin, heat, after all this time and lavished attention and words sweet and sultry and downright filthy, after one hundred and twenty minutes and one hot fuck, it is all over.

From where I sit, hands hugging my steaming cup of tea, Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery look back at me. They look back at me as I do the same, looking back on this time and feeling as if everything yet absolutely nothing has changed.

My encounter with him has left me wanting, longing, yearning. It has stirred and shaken and unsettled deep desires, both dark and light, desires now adrift and free floating without a warm body to anchor them or bring them to life.

Alone once more, I gaze at the grey sky wondering about the possibilities waiting out there for me on this cold winter's day.