The Thought

 “I have a thought” she said. 

“What kind of thought?” He asked. 

 

She stepped in close and looked up at him, admiring the sharp line of his jaw. “Well, first, I want you to give me the gentlest of kisses.” He gazed down at her, through hooded eyes, reached out and lifted her chin with one hooked finger, leaned down to until their lips almost touched and whispered “No.” 

A wry smile danced on his lips. The corner of her mouth curled in a smirk. She grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him close to her. “Now.” She commanded, looking him directly in his eyes and he returned the gaze, lips hovering so precariously close. She felt him smile. 

“Why should I?” He asked. 

“Because I want it.” She replied. 

“That’s not enough of a reason.” He said. 

“Of course it is.” She laughed. 

His smile faded, his face suddenly serious “give me a good reason and I just may.”

She let go of his shirt, stepped back, and looked him over. What were her reasons? Should she tell him that she was curious to see if his kiss would send electric shivers through her body as she suspected it would? Could she bring herself to admit that she dreamt of it? She stood there thinking of all the reasons she may have wanted to feel his touch and she could only come up with one…

“Because I need it” she whispered. 

He closed the distance between them quickly, reached out and took her face in both hands and kissed her tenderly. For a moment… the world disappeared. There was nothing in existence but them and this kiss. She felt it all the way to her toes, tiny tingling after shocks running through her skin like she had lightning in her veins. 

His lips were soft, his tongue sweet. His hands dropped to her shoulders as he stepped back, finally breaking away after what felt like an eternity. She closed her eyes wistfully, already missing the feeling of his body so near to hers. How delicious was his touch. To feel his skin against hers was intoxicating. She reveled in his lingering electricity, feeling light headed from the headiness of it all. She heard him laugh quietly under his breath and when she opened her eyes, she was alone, with only the lasting warmth of his skin as her companion.

The Daydream

 How do you write when the right words won’t come? How do I paint what I see when I look at him when every word I choose isn’t vivid enough… bright enough?

Do I speak of him in terms of nature as they share a beauty that is savage and relentless? Do I say that he is a flower, colorful and vibrant and alluring? Do I say that I want to strip back his petals and lay his delicate parts bare? How do I eloquently say that I want to expose those tender, secret parts to the air and fill my lungs with him? That I want to breathe in his scent and wear it on my skin as perfume?

How do I say that I want to play with him as a cat plays with a mouse or a bird? That I want to spend all night exploring his body’s response to my touch and all of its variances? That I’ve imagined hearing his breath catch in his throat while I have my lips wrapped around him. That in my fantasies, I’ve made him throw his head back, his eyes to the sky, and call out to whatever god he worships while his hands are buried in my hair. How do I tell you that I have imagined tasting him on my lips… his essence coating my tongue, honey sweet and animal musk. 

How do I tell you that I crave him?

How do I tell you that I’ve seen us afterwards? We are in bed. He is laying with his arm tucked under his head, leg bent at the knee, the sheets in a tangle around his waist. His eyes are foggy and his hair is tousled. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, sheet pressed to my chest, my back exposed to him. I light a joint and take a deep inhale before I pass it to him. We smoke and he starts asking me for advice. I give him unbiased insight. He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me back into him. I am the antithesis of him. He is sharp, angular and made up of sinew and chorded muscle. He is hewn from stone. His body was made for power and strength. I am soft and curved, my body was made for carrying life within it. The roundness of hips, the thickness of my thighs, the weight of my breasts… I embody the divine feminine and this is what he likes most about me. He asks me about everything as if I have all the answers, as if my age grants me the access to forbidden knowledge. He lays his head in my lap, looking up at me with those eyes that catch all starlight within them. His adoration makes me want him all the more. I lean down and kiss his soft lips, feeling them part against mine, the tips of our tongues tentatively and tenderly mingling… 

Do I describe making love to him in terms of the galaxy? Atoms whirling through space, crashing together and creating the heat that brought life to the solar system, merging and splitting for all eternity. How do I say I want him to lose himself in me and me in him? That I want us to worship each other? 

How can I do him or my daydreams justice when the appropriate words have yet been invented?