Undertow

She relished his mouth, savoring hints of truth and un-holiness, carnage and reparation. The way his back and shoulders undulated under the cadence of their bodies, nearly made her weep, the way a painting in a museum or gallery would catch her off guard, take the breathe right out from under her so she saw starts and pricks of light. When she came it, the rush of euphoria was otherworldly, her lithe fingers curling into the space between his shoulder blades, her head thrown back into a rumpled pillow that she had been gripping onto only seconds before as the swell of climax made each bone in her spine quiver.

*

He liked to run his tongue around the orbit of her breast, lightly catching her nipple, ripe, in between his front teeth, tasting the parts of her that light hardly touched. He would comment on the opalescence of her bare breast, several tones lighter than the rest of her summer flesh, how virginal and sanctified that sphere of skin was, susceptible to his touch, blotched red and pink, a relic left behind after he tugged his t-shirt over his head. What was left of him was only the slam of the car door and her left breast budding with stigmas she deemed sacred to her body.

*

He rolled joints with agility and purpose. Wetting his fingertips with the tip of his tongue, rolling the dried herbs into the supple paper as if he was creating a vital piece to a larger sculpture. The white sheet draped around the slope her waist made when she laid on her side, head resting on the bend of her elbow. She closed one eye, then the other, watching him meticulous in such a simple task. She liked viewing him from different angles. His, best features, prominent through a single lens. He lays the joint on the pillow next to him and swipes a lighter off the dresser, holds the joint under his nostrils and inhales. His eyes close, the way they do when he asks you to let your hands wander over his bare body.

*

There is a heat that is internal, his abdomen and chest the warmest parts of his body under your palms, so prominent that you like to rest your hands there feeling him enter you. You know this worshiping of him, his body, the way he has roused you is dangerous, wet hands around an electrical outlet, bathed in water while lighting illuminates the sky, you’ve become a conduction for that lethal current.

*

He breathes into the spaces of your body, the plateaus of your abdomen when you lay on your back, his breath hot there after he has tasted you, made you come in loud bursts then small murmurs. He exhales into the plains where your neck meets your shoulders and you can smell the ambrosial, pungent scent of your own body on this breath, and you guide his mouth to yours, fingers grasping at his hair, then his neck, and his tongue is warm, like honeyed tea. You let yourself be vain and tell him you love the way you taste on the crevices of his mouth.

The intensity billows down; you climb onto each other, enmeshing limbs like dancers. There, a flush that you can see. Light sticks together then pulls apart like caramel. There is a hunger that pulses at your gut, clawing at your diaphragm. Your lips are engorged and his skin bleeds sweat and lust. This is an exertion that deprives you of the necessities to live. And when its over you both lay, chests heaving into a dark night. The moon is a muted gold. You open your mouth, your mind racing before your heart can catch up. But you don’t say it. And you are left with the sound of running water and a sigh into the night.