I can barely remember what it felt like the shape of it, how hard or soft, warm or cool, moist or not, or how it must have felt against the palms of my hands, a slow massage as foreshadow of what might have come later, and did, the details of which escape me all these long years later, though in earnest, I still crave it as much now as I did then, perhaps because it has been so long, a dessert making a man like me all the more thirsty for it, a sign of oasis, just a mirage I see with eyes open or closed, struggling to remember what it looked like when at last exposed, this hope the same I imagined when she undid the buttons and let me gaze. I can barely remember and yet cannot help wanting it, just the same.
No comments:
Post a Comment