Tears stain the porous page with nostalgia for a time when love meant the world would stop spinning on demand; when obsession meant an urgent need to create, rather than anger, regret and yearning lodging themselves below my nails.
When the heart, the chest,the beat of hunger, heaves in anticipation to experiencethe most desired intimate act, beforewords become routine—the embrace—the original kiss—thepermeation of lovethrough touch, through body, a mere vessel to penetratemy soul.
I dissolve into this thought, this heat, this wave, letting my arms fall to my sides, as a sweet mauve scent plunges me into a place I have yearned for all my life—a place where love is not an expression of lust, or ink, or the familiar yet distant voice I remember now and then—it is a place where love is tangible, and lush, like the fruit hanging from the grape vine in the rain. Ripe. Wet. Waiting to be devoured.