As I crawl into bed, the blankets drown me in your scent. My skin replays the conversation of being touched by your skin. I tremble; the memory is electric. Even across our multilingual repertoire, what spoken words could possibly communicate that which is articulated by touch? Yet, you comprehend with such perfect clarity the meaning of each touch: a fingertip tracing your outline, here; a palm pressing into yours, there.
My ears recall the complex layers of your voice as you serenade me with Sinatra: simultaneously refined as an aristocrat, husky as an impassioned lover. Within me, the part that communicates only in music stirs; I have no words, only an indescribable feeling. I yearn to share this feeling with you, to let delicate notes tumble from my parted lips until your heart beats to their rhythm.
In this yearning, I press my lips gently against yours. My mind recreates the moment in ambrosial detail: your supple lips, your tantalizing taste. Our biology speaks in chemistry, and every message is intoxicatingly precise.
Oh,
oh.