Little morning fingers of sunlight reach in through the acquiescent glass window, barred only minutely by a thin beige curtain. The fibers of fabric gamble with the light, methodically scattering it, so its arrival on her bed, her body, her throne, is nothing shy of art. To paint over a painting would typically be a tragedy but here it is beatification. And that doesn't go to say that her beauty was ever in need of amplification; never before have I been so grateful to nature for doing its job to such a magnificent magnitude. Even from the doorway I look on like an unworthy observer, unable to comprehend how I've earned the honor of occupying such an active temple with my own mortality. Yet with each step closer, I swear I can feel her divinity seep from every microscopic pore, until it pours over me like infinitesimally invisible honey, a sensation delicious without even opening my mouth. But open my mouth I shall, in time, as my swollen patience reaches its breaking point, as I slowly reach beside the bed, and then reach out a scrupulous hand to caress this entity of flesh and intellect, dormant passion and spirit, with my idly voracious and ravenously curious fingers.

Subtle, smoothly coarse palms lay upon her with heavily gentle worship. I am as relentless with touch as I am placid and composed. The complexion of her skin pales in comparison to the composition of her flesh; it is a medium in and of itself, the arrangement of bones beneath, imperceptible to the eye, giving structure and form not unlike an articulate sculpture from Ancient Greece, albeit cosmically softer. Malleable, palatable thighs under appetent hands become delicately tremulous at the first sensation of gliding fingertips, experienced ballet dancers with a passion for topography. A stirring breath breaches a naturally fuchsia fissure as she wakes, the invisible particles fled from roused lungs now spewing into the air, moist from salivation, and I can tell she's sodden in more ways than one. It makes me wonder as my hands wander northward, if she was in fact dreaming of me, as I have insatiably been of her for the last several months, and perhaps centuries past.

Risen as if from an afterlife of paradise, yet somehow not one that her mind laments leaving, she sits up and I envelop her gaze. A delicately delectable smile paints a look upon her face with a hint of surprise and a sprinkle of premature satiation. However, I can tell that she not only still hungers for more but is actually athirst for a taste to the point of almost instinctively crossing her thighs - consequently burying my hands in her Garden of Eden - while those small fists take hostage of white sheet beside her hips. I am resultantly pulled closer, not unlike a fish hooked and reeled in, our faces surrendering an invisible tug-o-war, zealously anticipating that ravenously oral collision that nonetheless relents for the time being. Instead I am merely rendered breathless, transfixed by her harmonically merciless eyes. They're blue, and I do mean BLUE, each iris capable of drowning every cubic millimeter of my soul, which could only be made tangible solely by her magnum-opus stare. I could write novels and albums and epic poems illustrating her eyes alone, and their effect on not just my flesh but my every breath. About how the sun's morning gift of light is a blessing void of disguise, illuminating each minuscule fleck of black in the celestial ocean of those irises that can make even a hue of gray seem majestic, and every known shade of blue nothing less than a lambent wave. Every minute glance is an odyssey into the deepest fathoms of her Empyrean gaze, although I am reduced to a form of ruin merely by skimming its cerulean surface. And now, as time is thrust into stasis, she has complete control of my existence, that pelagic stare alone spellbinding my heart in a state of purgatory, a moat of milk and honey, betwixt chest and throat.

A lilting susurration moistens her lips but before she can brick and mortar a single syllable, I place my thumb to her mouth, as if a zipper with no need for teeth, but she knows I'll use them if incited. In their place is my leer, a sluggish response to her inebriating glance that seemed to last longer than mere seconds upon her conscious verticality, however its power is not dampened by its belated arrival. These soft emerald reticules barrel into her with the weight of my intentions, and her reaction is a subtle action which I wholeheartedly savor, from the fold of her figure to the parting of her sea-harboring legs before me. Supine, she is a delight to behold, a sight for sore eyes or in my case rapacious ones, achingly fervid to not only caress but also taste every flavor her skin has to offer, including those not readily identified. I descend upon her, a cartographer for her exquisite terrain. My tongue, though wide, is meticulous in exploration and serpentine in action. Every maneuver is executed with extreme passion, uninhibitedly reckless abandon, and restless dedication. Like flames composed of water, my ambitions travel through every taste bud to titillate her from clavicle to navel to mons Venus. As above, so below - lips saturated with excitation, the anticipative irrigation of nature's finest delicacy. Pluvial petals of a pink efflorescence takes my patience to the gallows and executes it without further relent. I dive, I plunge, I quench a thirst that delves deeper than mouth and farther than stomach. I taste her anthesis and hardly realize I am so lost in the frenzy of repast that I've become sloppy in my feeding, briefly fearful that I have developed into a selfish fiend for hydration. I am not acting out in just famishment, though, I am a selfish tyrant of taste, but it doesn't take me long to witness the epiphany that I am wrong, that she is in fact a grateful goddess and I, in her presence, a deified servant.

A crescendo pertinent to the personification of immortal creatures whose shapes bend light and shadow, a symphony inimitable among the vast collections of music I've yet heard, what more could a man say or even begin to fathom about the orchestrations spilling from her mouth in that molassic moment.. If ever beauty had a definitive sound, it would be a sample of this melodious euphony, which not only slathers the alabaster walls surrounding us but seems to melt into the artistic splendor that composes her uniquely titillating form. Soft, supple, yet strong shoulders intersect with her appetizingly pliable throat, the prior home to my hands as I bring myself to her level, still supine, my body now a hovercraft of rigid flesh bearing an inverted effigy in her honor. And the latter, her jugular, its undulating innards a channel for the gasping wetness of sound I now bathe in, quickly shifting intonation as I massage her hooded cherry moon; my mouth drips before its descent beneath her jawline, devouring with lips and tongue alone, her now arching neck. I swear upon this miraculous experience itself, that I can feel the vibrations of her staccato mellifluousness through the skin of her throat, infecting me with vampiric notions. However, the oceanic contortions of her body below me draw, seize, and hold my highest regard. My own form retreats, but not without hers in tow, arms curled around her back, scooping skyward, where she belongs, arranging a marriage between my spine and the bed. I gawk up at her stout tower of marvel in awe and wonder, skeptical that she is even human. Every imperfection is an asphyxiating morsel of ambrosia that I pine to engorge myself with. In her entirety, straddling and riding me as if into another realm entirely, she is without a fair mirror, an unprecedented glimpse of premature rapture, impossible to capture in any reflection or iteration. Somehow she is rendered breathless in my embrace, and I am not one to discard chances of such astounding bliss. I squeeze tighter, hold firmer, thrust faster. I bring the grace and fury of the Earth to meet her, engulfed in nectarous warmth and an eagerness to mutually erupt. In my arms she is a goddess through and through, a figurehead deserving a galleon to break tides and command mine. Hips like the base of Mount Olympus and a bust worthy of cathedral courtyards, her palpable entity beckons the reverence of reality itself, and with every fiber of my being I am feeling less like a worshipper and more like a resident, as if I belong inside of her, in her clasping arms and digging fingertips, in the currents of her torrential breaths and the delta underneath. I am home.

The ductile, luminous beneficence of her flesh welcoming me into its hall of glory, both beyond the reach of my eye and below its sweeping scrutiny, suffices to debilitate whatever equilibrium that I've managed to sustain for this long. The sanguinary vice grip of her deliquescent vault is a fault in the claret earth that I do not want to excavate myself from, only the severe opposite. To plunge, to accept the obfuscation of my senses in lieu of coalescing with her spectral divinity, not in hopes of becoming one with her temple, but merely to assimilate the halcyon sensations she exudes, to be imbued by that soothing thunder of climactic escapism, an eschewal of reality's barbarous fetters and mortal flaws. In her I perceive none, only the flawlessness of humanity, not a contagion to her plausible immortality but a gift of reason and flavor. Cherishing reckless abandon, I seek to seed a willow tree in my wake, to take naught from her but to simply give, and in return be irrigated by her omnipotent flood, a copious inundation for my every distended vein, rivaling the dispossession of my disembogued mortality into the flowerbed of her holiest of gardens. No matter the perceptibly unhallowed act, I redact not a single action nor deed, and in her satin sapphire eyes I can see that she, too, feels no different, their wet shimmer and the soft exhalation beneath them inviting the viscous warmth now permeating her catacombs, beyond the boundaries of flesh. Without diverting my enervated emerald gaze from her insouciant eyes, I look through that dawn-kissed window, and into a world I never wish to disavow.