Do you feel my fevered imagination reaching out to you, hot tendrils stretching sinuously across the Atlantic?
Do you feel my hungry kisses on your chest, on your neck, on your mouth?
Can you hear me whispering your name, with furtive fingers stuffed under my waistband, a second-rate approximation of your sublime touch?
Have you pictured my lipstick-smudged lips enclosing hot and wet around your head, sinking down slow, drawing you deep? Have you imagined the sensation of my tongue against the thick, veiny shaft, my hand cupping your balls?
Does the warm, damp scent of my arousal rise in your nostrils when you climb into bed each night, and does the ghost of my musky fragrance spur your hand on harder, faster whenever you palm your angry, red tumescence?
Through all this time we’ve been apart, have you ever imagined me lying naked beside you, nestled in the crook of your arm, fantasised about the smell of my hair, or the soft touch of my breast against your palm?
Have you ever lain awake at night missing me, wishing we could stop the clocks, put real life on hold, leap across the ocean, and just have one moment in which we could just be?
Are you still thinking about me while you’re away, and when are you coming home?
I haven’t forgotten you.
Say you haven’t forgotten me.