Modern Romanticism

Wild. Almost wicked. He has walked close enough. Up to her, where any closer will be through her. In his arms, it’ll come soon, but he’ll hold a ghost. Someone who wasn’t here a moment ago.

All around, heat blends with its accompanying scents. It wraps, pulls, and can’t let go. Lavender for a calmer mind swims around in this bedroom, sourced as indoor houseplants. Autumn speaks for what’s outside, where a clash of vibrant oranges and yellows create the symmetry between fallen or falling leaves with a fire inside one nearby hearth. This is atmosphere to burn and continue on its inferno within the hearts of two lovers for their predictable natures.

He puts her hand in his, raking up to his direction a foot nearer to his flesh a woman who divides her audible gasps into even rhythms. Lips are brought into unity. Breath goes down each other’s throat, where presence is tasted as their taste for the other has been presented and remains. A preferred flavor, for both of them, filling the veins in their networking extensions that had been once empty out of yearning. No need for them to remind each of other of what they already know. No need to say the three golden words, for they don’t need reminding.

His other hand has each individual finger running through long, chestnut tresses. Strands glide over one another like uneven waves on an ocean given life from a storm. That same hand finds her arching back, and then it grips her waist on her right side. His grasp here tightens, binding her form with his. Kisses go inward, while touches remain outward. Yet, it all ends up on the inside, where images will be burned into memories given even the faintest delusion of them being forever.

He lays her body down on a bed like scattered cards on the floor. Ripple after ripple from a see-through, sheer exposes what parts to provide his tongue with flavor, his nose with an aroma.

Digging into her light, her form that breaks the darkness apart where all places of her are highlighted. This is because he knows. He knows where everything is. He knows what she keeps hidden from others except for him, as he knows when the features of her face express the simplest hint of desire. She wants, and he gives. She needn’t ask, for he knows when it will be, and where it’ll be satisfied.