I Am Your Sappho

Warning: mushy, explicit letter up ahead.

~~~

I have not seen you since May. I did not think to give you a more meaningful goodbye because I thought I would come back for the fall. Instead, we hugged for the briefest of seconds (though I can still conjure up the feel of your jacket pressed against my very thin t-shirt), and then you abruptly let go in that curt way of yours that I cannot quite get enough of. If I could, I would store every smirk you throw at me and hoard every quizzical brow you raise in my direction. I would record your sharp-eyed cat stare and play it on the nights that macho men fantasies will not suffice in bringing me to orgasm.

Perhaps I am over-exaggerating the degree to which I long for you, but--really, now--can you blame me? I am neck-deep in the throes of my youth, all emotion and no thought, and someone dares come along to tell me that I am too overcome with desire for you, the first woman who has ever told me that it was okay for me to want her? Even though you will never reciprocate, there is no rule forbidding me to watch you from afar. Am I allowed that at least? There is so much to discover (and uncover and recover) from the breadth of your hands or the way you hold your shoulders when you laugh that I could weep from the embarrassment of such rich knowledge.

And sometimes my jealousy of your talents threaten to consume me. Your hands create art, create words, create music; all you do is create, a Goddess that never stopped on the Seventh Day. You are what I aspire to be, what I hope to be, what I dream to be. The sheer force and depth of your intellect could shame half the professors here, your creativity could rival the top tier of the published faculty, your character could outweigh the entire lower-classmen body. It angers me to think that there have been others, unworthy others, trying to learn all your secrets, both of flesh and mind.

Just give me a chance, and I would know you so completely that you will have thought that everyone else before me had been fumbling around with the map turned upside-down. I would kiss every talented fingertip, suck each delicate earlobe, trace every gentle curve on your unbearably soft skin, and stroke my way down to where your thatch of dark curls would be waiting. By the end of it, your mouth below would be as familiar with my tongue as the one on your face. This time, it is most definitely not my youth speaking for me. Your body is a world, and I intend to explore every inch.

I wrote this because it has been several weeks since my last entry about you. There have been many more musings, all incomplete, all unwritten, all forgotten in my poor attempts to curb my--obsession? Infatuation? I have not yet found an appropriate word to describe everything I have been feeling for the past two years. You will never know (could never know) how often I think about you, how frequently I imagine you with me, or how much I worship you at night--a fact that I grudgingly content myself with. So thus you remain my unrequited muse until this sweet, aching feeling has run its course.

But this is not something I want to be cured of.