Homecoming

When we're together its what we both call home. In the little lover whispers, the lexicon of owner and owned, home is when we are one.

I crawl into my bed, deliberately naked, his smell on me still, my body aching from his touch, his hands, his teeth, his belt. Each welt and mark and ache evidence that I'm loved, treasured, that I belong to someone...that I'm real.

My bedroom window remains open from when I left to meet my Sir. Now the sun spills in through the trees outside, the wind blowing across the bed where I lay, remembering. The parts of him I love the most: the smile I only see at certain times, the rounded part of his hand below his thumb that I sucked and mouthed as my head lay on his lap, his ears, the thickest part of his arm, his soft skin, his teeth and how they aren't straight but have a distinct shape - I would know them on my skin even if I were blindfolded...his voice, particularly when he's stern, his bottom lip, fuller than my own and how hard it is to ever resist lingering there when we kiss.

How can I be this in love with someone who can bring me to tears from pain, who rarely gives me what I want just when I want it or how, who forces me to his will in nearly every encounter, who makes me feel simultaneously small and unworthy, and at the same time like I'm the most important thing in his life? How can I give him things I don't necessarily want to give, but only do so because they are for him?

I wonder, does he know all these things I feel, or does he suppose I liked them all before him? Its as if I'm being reshaped and formed into a creature of his design, interrupted off my own path and redirected to his ... does he know or does he just assume that's the way it is?