I saw that I was
kissing her...
So close to her, I couldn't have seen her face even if my eyes were open ...
But I knew it was her ... the aroma of a flock of doves taking flight, the aroma of a kid's laughter. The honey brown of her eyes spreading around, turning the sunlight sepia. I didn't need to open my eyes to know it was her.
... and the taste ... there was a familiar taste. Familiar yet eluding me ... Mocha? Wine? Chocolate? Rain ... What was that taste?
The butterflies were taking flight, of all colors imaginable, and with each stroke of their wings, another doubt in my mind was gone.
The hands were touching ... the fingers were touching lightly, moving, tracing each other's boundries ... the cold fingers - her or mine (or of both). I remember the sensation too, cold fingers, warm lips, a slow motion kiss.
And like a murder of crows, the black dressed hooded past, her or mine (or of both) was sitting at a distance. Restless, abandoned, forgotten ... and the liar in my head was tied to a tree at a distance, tired, exhausted, failed.
Like slow falling rain, the maple leaves were falling on us, red, yellow, orange ... all the colors of fire were falling.
I woke up drunk in the morning ...
There was something she was saying. A story? a secret? There were words ... not spoken, nor written ... they were in her taste. Her taste was her secret, her taste was her story ... if only I could recall her taste ...
smell | sound | sight | taste | touch