He doesn't know what I'm thinking, the photographer behind the lens. He sees a middle-aged man, an actor, someone who will bring him a paycheck at the end of the week. He doesn't see me. Not like you do.

He doesn't know that in my mind, right now, I have thoughts of your tanned, naked body as it lays sweat-soaked against golden silk sheets. An image I burned into my mind last night after we made love. He doesn't know I carry that vision with me like a sweet daydream. But you do.

He doesn't know that this half smile I'm wearing comes from remembering the look on your face, the complete surprise, of seeing me at your hotel room door unexpectedly after I'd told you that I couldn't possibly make it. He doesn't know I have a gift for storytelling. Not like you do.

And if he could see, this photographer man, the memories that I replay in my mind on long flights, or boring car trips, when the open road calls me like the open sea to a gull, how crystal-vivid you are every day in my mind, would he understand? Would he comprehend the part of my soul in which you abide? Probably not. But you do.

If he had even the slightest hint of what I had planned for you once I'm finished here and can get back into your loving arms, he'd blush as red as the shirt I wear. Somehow I think he is slightly aware of my thoughts, because he consistently focuses on my face, avoiding full-length body shots. Will you be able to see what I'm thinking when you see these photographs in a couple days? You may not know it now, but you will.

~END~