He sees her, and can't decide if he's awake, or dreaming, or lost somewhere in between. Trapped in some celestial void where he neither sleeps nor wakes. She seems wrapped in sunlight, gilded, as if the sun himself yearned to touch her skin and could not bring himself to let go. He fears that just brushing his fingertips along her jaw might blister his skin, set him ablaze. And yet he, like the sun, cannot resist her.
He needs her, but not like he needs air, water, food. This is something more primal, more instinctual than even these baser functions. He needs her in ways he can no longer fathom, so far has he fallen from the gods. She appears to him, sings to him sometimes, and he wonders where she goes when she dances out of his grasp and vanishes.
He wants her, a powerful craving unlike anything he has ever known. He imagines until he can see, feel, and taste every bare, glistening inch of her body. Flushed with desire, chest expanding and contracting as she draws in deep, impassioned breaths, spills his name from her throat or her mouth or her fingers. He can't say where, just that his name emerged from her and he became something infinitely more powerful with its utterance.
He can see the way she laughs, sitting beside him in the car, bare feet propped up on the dashboard, August sunlight trapped in her smile, her golden hair, the lilting of her voice as she responds to something he has already forgotten he said. He is lost in it, dazed, out of breath. He isn't sure this ever happened. Perhaps he only dreamed it, imagined it, created it.
He can hear the way she cries, though the reason escapes him, and he feels a powerful desire to tear the moon from the sky and hurl it into the earth if it means she will never know another second's sorrow. Poetic, perhaps. Adolescent and foolish, but being in love does strange things to the minds of men.
He can feel her hearbeat, thrumming just inches from the tips of his fingers. They tremble where the cup her breast. Whether in passion or in some gesture of protection as she drifts off to sleep in the wake of passion, he can't decide. Both draw him and he can't draw a conclusion.
He can taste strawberries on her lips. He thinks. Its sweet, reminds him of late summer. The days growing shorter, but the sunlight still falling gloriously. Winter is approaching, and the sun always seems more bellicose than benevolent when the cold settles in. For now, he wants nothing more than to kiss her again, and then spend every moment kissing her until he is but a dessicated husk on the rotting back of the world.
She is sense and sensation. The perfect compliment to all the things he wants to be, knows he can be. She's a molten gold Aphrodite. She's stolen Zeus' thunder. Apollo's chariot. She makes lesser gods bow like unruly children come to the switch. he is torn between standing at her side, and kneeling, subjective. For all the strength of will he possesses, she possesses him.
He covets her, despite the sin. Or, perhaps, to spite the sin. He would paint himself her Messiah, and then burn away the canvas lest she see what he desired. We all have silly thoughts, he thinks. Then he paints her smile with starlight.
He calls himself a writer. A man who makes his living with words. A man who lives for words and muses. Poems and songs and stories crafted with more love than children. Without heed of the world rushing by. He creates his own. Yet he finds himself speechless at the sight of her emerging from a stream, clothed only in the air between them. He finds himself unable to speak a single syllable when she brings her lips to his.
He finds himself unable even to breathe when the sun burns him to ashes in her palm and she revives him only to scorch him again with a kiss. And yet he, like the sun, cannot resist her.
Lovingly,
-S.R.
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