I hear you packing in the walk-in closet. Your overhead with its leather inlays and mustard canvass with your essentials, a matching suit bag, anniversary gifts from an adoring wife. These are things which engender mixed feelings; I love you and can only barely bear you being away from me, and I am inordinately proud of and grateful to a man who can take care of us so well. Your travel is essential to this life but I hate it, I hate it almost as much as I love you.

This time, it is all the more difficult for me because I have this deep, primal yearning for you, unsatisfied last night because of your work. You came to bed so late. What was it? Two? Three? I listened to you arguing, convincing, disputing, for hours, drifting off to the intonations of a man whose voice alone can move mountains.

Why didn’t you wake me?! Why didn’t you slide my the covers from my breasts, raise my hands above my head and wake me with your breath on my breasts? Why didn’t you send me to sleep by forcing me to cum and filling me with you? Why did I wake up so awfully clean?

I’m always emotional at this time. It’s biological. I know this and love about myself that I am so needful of your touch, particularly now. You love it too but last night? You let me be. Why did you let me be?