Water naturally finds its way. It is moved however, by wind.
Michael VII moves me. He causes gooseflesh on my damp skin; his sapphire and platinum eyes are bathed in ocean blue; his thighs ripple like rip tides.
But what moves me most is that he draws from me words: suggesting what I should write. He’s like the magnet to my imagination, he finds disparate fragments of my imagination and helps them to coalesce into coherent thoughts. Ideas which fill these pages.
All my lovers leap, like summertime swimmers in a quarry, onto these pages, so I can share them with you.
All of our lovers are private. But on these pages I share them with you. I want you to see them as I see them: moving.
Like the wind on water.