Without

Within my words, I have found the most private and stimulating parts of myself. My words are the secrets that creep under the skin and I give them like kisses that I must sneak in, so no one knows how truly devilish I am. My words have been my greatest sins, my most important whispers. They are the only things that come with truth and passion, when all other things are lacking, when all other courage is gone.
I have often been fingered as a sexual figure, one with intrigue and mischief in constant supply, noted only in the corner of my crooked grin, when passing in person.
In correspondences, I have spoken in suggestive and provocative manners, only to seem timid in the flesh. Lacking in the lips, that which many have imagined pouring out, a verbal intercourse, teasing to the strength and aptitude with which I may have proceeded to please, the areas that become affected by the movement of blood.
But these words are an experiment, a course of curiosity that means nothing outside the proof of theories.
People have played the game of words against me, with varying success. Fluctuations for satisfaction and new levels of intrigue, stress the relationship constantly. I have kept years to the pages with some without physical resolution, while other interactions on the page have turned into complete affairs, in the most dramatic and sinister of senses. Failing and succeeding at this art has separated me completely. The writer remains poised beneath the daily activities and loves that I keep. I do not make room for her observations or passing fancies. She does not speak, where I bluntly can, and what I find is that her voice lies within my inability to keep secrets. To keep safe. The writer within me is a criminal who teases endlessly to be caught while remaining elusive to capture. She wants to be inspired to sin. She is fragile to judgment and encouraged by praise.
Separate, she misses other writers like lovers. She mourns their leavings again and again and thrashes her words for their inability to keep others close. In place of kisses and warm embraces, she misses response and experiences phantom sensations associated with the loss of a limb. She attempts to return to worlds of thoughts and desires that were built up between writer and writer. The brave escapes they attempted to make from reality and all its menial tendencies, stick in her throat and complicate the meaning on the page.
And she smiles with subtle amusement within me. She throws out line and hook and prays for a catch big enough to satiate her. And my words have been my biggest sins. My most important whispers…

I have not reached the point. It is a conversation, not a monologue, and so I struggle. I beg for reply. There must be pressure behind a touch, in order for it to be felt.