Timothy

a lingering contentedness

for that day and that night, and part of the next afternoon, I was content. she'd left that morning, the scent of her still fresh on my sheets, the remembrance of her kisses, the taste of her lips, the look in her eyes as she arched her back, the tell-tale itch from her nails on my spine. this is how I choose to remember her. fleeting, as it was. there are moments in time, when you relish such things. one can no more ignore the fragrant sigh of her hair lilting across her heaving chest, that one could wish to stop breathing. perhaps no longer than a heart beat.

I never saw her again, truth be told, had I, I may have fallen in love love her, or the memory of the time we spent. neither a particular picture of truth. I wouldn't regret it, won't, can't, it's not a matter of this or that, but a cloudy daydream wafting up from the tattered rafters of my subconscious. exhale. breathe. sigh. long nights ahead, I see the stars, I smell the cedar and pine from the fresh nights rain, and all I want to do, is dance with her, and be drenched again in that downpour.