Taste of Him ( early evening dreaming at my computer)

Further provoking desire, lips barely brushing skin, as gently I lean down, my cinnamon lipstick leading a certain marked trail along his thigh. Instead of a hapless lover, a goddess of erotica frees herself from inside of me, and in insurmountable contradiction leads me to the wanting more of him. I have not touched him yet, as he expertly navigates his way down my torso, at first drawing nothing but breath, but then pressing so hard into me, leaving me in a hypnotic trance that cements to memory.

In the morning, he will leave one final abstract kiss painted on my breast, and I will slip a door key into his pant's pocket as he takes a shower. He will head to the metro, and I will smile, both of us will become predictable. Feeling a bit light headed still from the wine and the heat, and the consideration of what is still, yet to come. Leaning out my window, I let the rain fall on my face...
  >>>>>>>
The faded fabric of my couch, a few pots of geraniums, I start to open a bottle of wine, but the cork is stuck, and I look at him, a dream I can never quite put into words, as I reach for him as if entering into another life. Several afternoons a week, the bed frame clanks against the wall, without hesitation in one swift gesture, each having reached completion, as we now lie in one another’s arms. The curtains billow, I wrap myself within them, as my smell of lavender stays saturated on his skin, and the taste of him, stays forever upon my lips.