When she can no longer be with him, and stir him in the ways he longs to be stirred, she finds other ways to move him.
When the unforgiving sun is beating down, and the wind is still, she is a cool gust of air, spiraling around him, whooshing past his ear, emanating the sounds he will no longer hear.
At night, when he doubts if his hand will ever trace the distinct arc of her hip, she becomes a flash of light, illuminating the dark sky, reminding him of his power, and how he sent jolts of bliss through her body.
In the early morning hours, before the rays of sun creep above the desert horizon, and the earth is still cold, she becomes a fiery orb that grows deep in his core, radiating from every point of his body, until he is warm and spent.
And on the days when he doesn’t need her help, she sprouts swift, feathered wings, and darts around the garden until she settles his attention. When she feels his focused, penetrative gaze, she lands on a flowering vine, so that she can watch him delight in a wonder.