Humans and their perceptions of pleasure are thrilling, interesting. Some find contentment in a book, untangle the curls and stems of a word in order to decipher a meaning, put some sense into the world in which they reside. Others allow the gentlest of breezes to lift the end of their hair, loop around their fingers, kiss their lips. They marvel at the littlest buds struggling through soil, at the peonies and chrysanthemums and brilliant white orchids gracing the earth.
And still, there are people who find fulfillment and satisfaction in the presence of others. You've shifted up on the bed, the curve of your head softened by the silken pillow underneath. The wide collar of your shirt grows wider still as his fingers shift the fabric aside, granting a breath of cool air onto the skin. His mouth comes undone from yours, and he moves his head down, down over the softest flesh of your neck to the protruding slope of a collarbone. You feel a wetness there—his tongue, earnest, enthusiastic. You can't help the sound you make. Your stomach shivers, stoops, and descends. You watch the frail yellow light deepen to a more clementine shade as the sun breathes onto his cheekbone, eyelashes.
The wooden grid in front of your window casts a pattern onto his bare back, a framework of brown and ivory and apricot. There is a fleeting though, as succinct as his fingers on your thighs; you would give up everything, the entirety of the joie de vivre that prevails within you, if you were to relive this moment for as long as possible.
YOU ARE READING
I Pity the Grasshopper | ✔
Spirituali am vaster than the sky above me. i thrum with the fibrous light of vitality. i am the earth and everything below.
