the heel press

Thoughts of him dance through my mind, swaying gracefully through empty corners. They fill hollow spaces with his laugh, the slight part of his lips as he brushes them against mine, his hands tracing the contours of my body. These memories start small and then grow, expanding until they are pushing against walls and have no choice but to disperse. Joining forces with crimson red blood cells, they gather oxygen in my lungs and then release, gliding through capillaries, fueling my body with air and life.

I smile foolishly when a memory hits, recalling the calmness in his voice as we talk over candlelight and wine. Some flashbacks emit chills, causing hairs to stand attentively at thoughts of careful grazes along the middle of my back. The memory of his hands floating along mine, fingers interlacing and brushing against my skin as he pulls me closer and I feel his radiating warmth. In a sea of wrinkled blankets, our twisting bodies melt as individuals and amalgamate as one.

I am drawn to him, pulled like a magnet to steel, needing to learn more through touching. The power of his stroke has conquered me, and I have sensually raised my white flag. His parade of kisses then surrender, confessing secrets through soft whispers that are interrupted by more kisses. Quick pecks, playful kisses when he hovers over my lips with his until giving in, deep and passionate kisses that leave me weak in the knees, second kisses, kisses followed by a nibble of my lower lip. Each kiss is more delectable than the last.

Only days since our last encounter and I am drunk with a burning desire to create more images, replicating the old and inventing the new. They reel in my mind like a favorite movie, vivid and familiar, except the ending is still unknown.

The beauty of it lies in the mystery of what our story will become.