I watch in awe as she comes: her naked, invisible limbs shuddering under the force of her own desire. She is insaciable and wild for my love, the corners of her mouth dripping—wet—with sweet saliva. And when she comes, she comes hard —windows rattling and a bed that will not be still in the wake of her intensity. She rides upon continuous trains of peaks and passion, her wanting writhing in a whirlwind of erupting sound. And oh, her sounds. The sounds of her climactic pleasure become the hypnotic notes of my capture, and so, too, become the song of my service. But, it is not as you think; I do not grieve for freedom. When Sandy came, she asked nothing of me and there were no duties but to love her. It is for her absence that I grieve: a lover with no face, nor heart, nor lips, nor touch—she is a ghost of love, but she cannot give it. My dearest Sandy, is it you at my window? And, how can I ever know you? Surrounded by the fury of your embrace, within these walls you keep me. And with every wispered note you sing, I pray for your peace, and that before first light, you will release me.