Tired, but never too tired to reach out, to seek a touch, to cross air in search of the tiniest movement. Tired perhaps of everything that stands in between the tips of my fingers and you, the space between skin and skin, the brush of surface, of fingerprint on goosebump.
Tired of waiting for the space between my hand and your skin, your essence, to be removed, tired of waiting to feel your pulse, where my fingers and your heat meet and mingle, where grasp begets groan and pinch seduces and waits for a moan, where fingers, my fingers hold you on the edge, the ledge before falling until you do and I start over again.
Tired but never tired of showing you exactly how this is done, my way.
Tired perhaps, but never tired of touching you.