Nanowrimo/10 — “Dreamstime” progress, slowly, the POV is difficult. #amwriting #love

So, what Dreamstime is about was wanting a child and how that didn’t happen.  It’s also about love between two people, and that love can cure things.  I think it is very intimate as a read, because of the letters.  Anyway, my part is wrapped into all that.

So I have 886? Right now, and am going to type in one of my letters.  It’s really cold and gray today — all overcast and dark.  I wish I had a fire.  Anything to have one for the crackle.  So much going on in “outside” life today very hard to focus on the page.  Anyway I said I’d put something from a letter yesterday and didn’t so I shall here:

I wish I could write some poetry for you tonight.  But, it’s not there.  I could tell you what it is like to drift my finger tips down your rib cage and over your thigh.  I could tell you what it is like to frame your face with your hair and look into your eyes.

I could tell you what it is like for me to let my lips drift over your face and feel my heart touch the sky.
I might try to tell you what it is like to hold you close to me with your head in the crook of my arm and touch you.  And let my lips touch yours like a feather’s breath.  And smell the sunshine in your hair.  To hear the music that comes from deep within you.  To whisper in your ear, Yes my love, Yes you can.”  To feel you convulse, to feel your nails dig into my flesh.  To see you let go and look into your moist eyes.  And see you at peace with the world, at least for the moment.  To hold you close and feel you melt into me.  And I love and feel loved.  No poetry tonight!

Back later.

This is one of those days when things are dark and the sky is very overcast which does not help mood.  It’s also very cold, freezing to me, even though it isn’t but it seems like it.  So Managed to squeak it out just barely today.

Probably tomorrow I will look back over the whole thing and see what I have, now.  I know the opener, the end, the morality tale part and the sexy bits but honestly it is a sad story I’m writing.  Today listening to Cassandra Wilson sing this.  I loved the surrealist image too, the writer’s hands with eyes in the palms.  I think that is what we type out.  What our eyes saw and know.

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