This moment,
Now,
I hear your soft voice.
The one you use only for me.

I feel my arms around your hips
as you stand **** before me.

I smell you.

My god, your smells!

I am listening to the London Symphony Orchestra
perform Carmina Burana.
One of your many favorites.

Tough morning. Enough said there.

The air is cool and a slight breeze is coming through my windows.

I hear the incessant traffic on cuming street,
the fans I have in my bedroom and living room,
the music of Carl's primo vere,

and your voice.

It whispers to me across centuries,
softly, sweetly.
No trace of sarcasm
or acrimony.

It speaks to me of mountaintop cabins,
of quiet moonlit ponds,
of autumns last victim slowly falling to the ground
to join it's cousins.

It speaks to me of music,
timeless and universal.

It does not harangue, or plead or spout.

Instead it soothes me, caresses my body
with an undeniable comfort.

This moment,
Now,
I feel you deep within my core.

You are safe there.