In a bath I lie. Slowly it fills up with the deep timbre of his voice which made my downy hairs vibrate and now crawls up over my legs which I still keep tightly closed, over my belly which starts to reverberate softly, a resonance box of forgotten desires, up, up, bathing my breasts, which are glowing and growing, and caressing my throat, irrigating my lips, until trembingly they split and a hundred timbres are tinkling my tongue, while I start flowing out and rise, rise, carried by a soundbed of melodic coveting.

In a bed I lie. Slowly I fill up of symphonic madness by his voice which makes my fingers vibrate and which lets them caress the right chords at his legs, until they, after a short interlude in the perfect hollows of his knees, begin their lonely quest, up, up, take a rest for some counts on the upturned timpani, storm over the acoustic valley, and then down, down, until cymbal and trumpet, in an echotic vortex tear my dome and bounce, bounce, while my body rises to harpic heavens and to an apotheosis of splashing sounds.

In a bed I sit. My own bed. My lone bed. Slowly light seeps in through the curtains. It's morning. Six o'clock. Looking down I see the fine dew on the frizzles sparkling lightly. My fingers hurt, my heart's drumming wildly. It's early. Much too early. Better to sleep again. Maybe I'll hear it again. The voice. The rising voice.

© Frans Tooten