(Please, approach with caution, this is an erotic prose)
In the adrenaline rush, I am stripped of my flesh and bones, gripped in thoughts of you. Like the beauty of Joni Mitchell’s Blue and ‘the case of you’ of this, I am certain I could drink more. To wait, to taste and savour your liquor, mouth salivating at the thought of getting drunk from adorning and drinking in your beautiful body.
These days, I console myself by looking at your photographs, yet the feeling ceases to dissipate. I am still enthralled by you. I keep having flashbacks of me looking over the expanse of your sculpted back, and so the beautiful is cast.
I so long to taste the inside. Sometimes, I awake, and my mind drifts to thoughts of you. I whisper to myself how nice it would be to savour the scent of your body. It is an elixir that grips my mind blind.
Is there a more alluring aroma than the acerbic sweet scent of the body rested and fermented through the night. Hanging — a mist shrouds over the skin, infused, untainted by outside scents, just the pure essence of you. Even as I write these words, my stomach is injected with adrenaline, my head flooded with endorphins, the pressure upwelling against the inner lining of my skull. I become intoxicated at the thought of seeing and tasting your skin, kissing you from the top of your head, caressing the contours of your ears, probing…
