I belong to a writer’s group that meets twice a month. Between meetings we occasionally have an optional “homework” assignment. A few weeks ago that assignment was to write a love letter to ourselves as is it were from someone else. This is mine:
I am so happy that you’re home. The last few days have been a cold wasteland of lonely evenings, empty afternoons and an indescribably vast and empty bed.
You’re home and my delight is almost overwhelming even though I don’t display it. I sit here almost vibrating with anticipation of your first touch. My heart beats wildly, my eyes following your every move. As you near me I can’t help myself, I stretch toward your hand. I need to feel you stroke me. Your strong sure touch reassuring me that I’m not forgotten.
Please, please, please! Hurry and finish the many small busy details that come with returning from being away. Those details that occupy your attention, when all I want is for that attention to be turned to me.
Please come sit, relax, tell me about your adventures. Let me feel a part of your life again.
Let me curl up with you and absorb your warmth. I crave your nearness, gazing into your eyes, listening to the steady beat of your heart, feeling the rise and fall of your breath
At last, you settle into our favorite chair, ready to be home, to be with me again.
I can’t help myself so forgive me when I grasp your arm and my nails dig ever so slightly into your tender flesh. I will heal the tiny hurts with my purrs.
You’re home and I’m happy again.
All my love – Slick