It's been so long since I've been here. Like visiting a friend I haven't taken the time to see in weeks. I haven't even touched the Wanderer in as many months. Been too busy in relationship hair-pulling and winding up the pitch to move to Colorado for school, for my new destiny. But I haven't abandoned things. If anything my time with Kimber has only fed the engine of Tisandra and Bobby. I have a little angst, a little tension I can use to fuel the words. And Tom Waits. Lots of booze-swilling sorrow music from the Devil's musicman from his two new albums. Tom is Bobby's music for goddamn sure. Tom Waits and Reverend Horton Heat reach down in me and give Bobby oxygen. They fuel the magical misery.

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Bobby felt the soft, almost fluid nature of the skin on her cheeks. He could barely make her out in the dark. But her skin. Her skin enveloped the rest of his senses. His touch. His nostrils. He felt more powerful on top of her than he had ever felt in his life, felt capable of peeling away the world while he held himself inside of her, felt like he'd never known he was half of someone until just now. And the idea of her ever leaving him would make him feel less than himself. He knew that too. That this was a pact. Of promises made in the flesh.

The air wafted in from the sliding door and cooled against the sweat between them, tempering the warmth. And he could feel her eyes. Even through the darkness, knowing damn well he couldn't see a thing in the pitch black of the room, he could feel her eyes looking at him. They were soft. Tender. Embracing. Asking. He couldn't see them. He just knew they were there. And closing his eyes, he twined her fingers with his and forced his body against her, giving everything he was to her.

Losing himself in a moaning gift of reply.