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It seemed that the air itself was filled with the buzz of words, but with her death the words were merely sounds to fill the space. The words themselves were dead, and fluttered to the wooden floor like clumsy flies. The owner of our words was wrapped in her shroud and lay in that simple dark box. And so, a chapel filled with a million spoke meaningless gibberish when we attempted to mourn and speak our greatest grief at losing our gift, our Muse. It seems ironic to me that the one moment when all wanted to cherish and remember the cause of letters loved, and stories told, when it was absolutely obligatory to paint our grief in the words she gave us, those words ran dry. I wept. No, I keened because the words I needed were gone. When I needed them the most, the fled and I babbled mercilessly with the throngs. Tears were on the undistinguishable faces, pouring out the words that should have been, the words that could not be. And we could only hope, could only pray that it was enough. Standing beside the bed, I push the boxer-briefs down over my hips, over my already semi-erect cock - it bounces when it's freed - then push the boxer-briefs down my thighs and let them slide down my legs to puddle on the floor.She smiles and sets her e-reader aside as I fold the blankets back so I can slip into bed. She turns off the light beside the bed, darkness. I pull the blankets up over myself and shimmy down so they cover me to my shoulders. I feel her roll over and slide down. Without a word, I stretch my left arm out and she slips into the available space and presses herself against me.Her breasts press into my lower chest, she throws a leg over my legs and I can feel the heat coming from between her legs. I bend my arm and my fingertips find her warm, soft back and I rub, trying to touch her as gently as possible. She groans and I smile. She lifts her head and, even though we don't speak and can't see each other, our lips find the other's and my fingers slide into her hair.
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