© Astrid de Manyet
Sometimes there is sensuality in solitude.
I am sitting just beyond his reach
so that he must watch me
unable to touch me with his hands
not even the barest brush of fingertips
but only the gaze of eyes
upon the curve of my shoulder
as I let my own gaze settle on the ocean.
I am like the tide.
Raw and powerful some days
bashing against him like the ocean does the rocks
crashing and breaking anything not strong enough
washing away anything not tied down
other days ebbing in like a gentle bath
polishing with the utmost care
leaving behind tiny treasures as gifts
perfect shells and polished white sand dollars
as token memories that I am real.
He is watching me.
I feel his gaze upon my hair
as it cascades over my shoulder
tickling the sensitive stretched skin
over the curve of my collarbone
and I move it aside so he can see more
just to tease him but I do not look back
because...
Sometimes there is sensuality in solitude.
