It is the scent of a placidly soft drizzle on Sunday mornings in spring, the sensational essence of rain splattering against sun soaked streets, sending an atmospheric aura skyward. The smell is fleeting, a sudden, vanishing air of solid concrete spliced with the spirit of illustrious mist. It is an aroma that spirals so swiftly I’m not certain whether the sentiment is, in fact, real. Perhaps the entire episode is simply an ethereal illusion, some sort of secret vision of my dreams. Such is the mysterious sensuality that entrances me so.
It is the sound of icy particles hissing to a stream of rising steam as your tongue presses slowly against the surface of a summer day popsicle. We sit on a porch swing, soft smiles passing through the spaces between our faces. The sun is sinking below the horizon in the distance, just as your silky body slips silently into a shimmering basin of smooth, sudsy water on hazy afternoons. It’s a sort of release, a smooth surrender of cumbersome routines. Burdens sway away in the sea of sparkly bubbles.
It is the stroke of your sweet blissful sighs against my cheek as you slide serenely into slumber, your shaved legs smoothly spreading wide beneath my snowy sheets. Your delicate figure nestled securely against mine, I trace the squiggles of your strawberry hair with my sleep-laced eyes. You sometimes squirm in your sleep, each recess of your comatose body suddenly sweeping into a new state, forming swirls of arched shuffles. You, a dancer; I, your star-struck, stupid audience. I sense lightness circulating about.
It is the taste of your lips, sparkling under a glossy sheet of sweetness, moistened scrumptiously as you lean towards me for a kiss. Tongue twisted and cheeks red with shy passion, I sense a smile draping itself across your mouth, as a curtain sweeping briskly across the stage at intermission. We are thespians swooning with elegance, spawning elaborate spectacles from the seemingly simple world. For when I am with you, a shroud of sensual ecstasy engulfs my spirit and the stagnant surface of the ordinary shatters to release the supernatural.
Yes, the letter S is many things to me, but none of them are quite as powerful as the sorrow it sparks when I wake from my daydream to find myself reclined in a hammock between two dewy oak trees. The mist is continuous and its mystery has once again captured my dreams. I exhale breathlessly, fearing I shall never comprehend the true essence of that elusive curvy line.