Saturday, March 15, 2014


 I cannot stop thinking about touching her. Not bare skin against bare skin, chest against chest, though the thought does not escape my mind, but her, close enough to emanate warmth through layers of clothing. My imagination overloads on the ghost of her in my arms, the ridges of her ribs rubbing my forearms, and I cannot envision anything but the palms of my hands against her hips, her head close enough that the scent of her hair is all I can smell. 

And what of the explorations of my fingertips? They shall trace every part of her; the knobs of her spine after she has lost her shirt, the valleys of her ribcage, the downy hairs on her arms. I want to know if she will shiver, if her breathing will hitch and adopt a desperate arrhythmia. My body will have hers, and she mine, and we will lie on the precipice of recognising something inherent and inalienable, human conquistadores in a familiar, unexplored landscape.  

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