I’m lost in the oily sheen of my black, morning coffee and can still smell you on my skin, on my face.
They way you moved, the way you grooved to a tribal drumbeat of our own device. The tussle and playful, the beastly and possessed, the night.
Mapping you, discovering the treasured spots of Eros blessings across your supple curves. An adventurer’s spirit in the untamed wild of your bucking body.
You also charted a course within and without me. A tease, a tickle, a tangible torture, met by the eager subject that I became in your hands, at the Artist’s brush of your lips.
The delicate subtleties and wanton, willing atrocities we committed against each other, under the canopy of a black, satin sky, left us devilishly dazed and spiritually satiated. Left us marked and molded. Left us panting. Breathless. Obliterated.
And as the sheen of my coffee swirls and billows and grows cold in the harsh morning light, I’m lost in my own thoughts, and still smell you on my skin.