It is a dark and quiet night—a night on which my senses wholly intoxicate me, and on which I could easily become, if nothing else, the target of some strange looks. I could spend minutes just gliding my fingers across the tabletop to feel the texture of it, to feel by contrast the texture of my fingertips, with their ridges and whorls and slight sheen of sweat in the warm night air. My shadow from the too-bright streetlamp fascinates me, to see my thin hips sway slightly with every step, the movements of my clothing catching the ruffling breeze—though I would be naked if I could—my arms swinging slim counterpoint to my more muscled legs. It's fortunate I don't have access to a full length mirror, or I'd be helpless in my narcissistic amazement.
I taste my skin with the underside of my bottom lip, feeling the bloodbeat in my wrists, the tickling hairs across my arm, the smooth serenity of my palm and scarred wrinkles of my knuckles. This is the lip I kiss you with, if ever I kiss you, if ever one or the other may be said to be responsible. It is my taste, my grasp, my single nerve ending. It remembers you. Anticipates you.
I shiver. The balance between the heat outside (delusory though it be) and the cool quiet which invades my thoughts like a pool overflows into a rock's depression is delicate at best, and the the rising heat, pulsing fire, that spreads outward from my center of balance engulfs me. To reach out, to stretch out my hand, and—
And what? Consummation? I would not dare; the mysteries are not lightly profaned, and yet you—
For you, I would—
But that is merely so many repetitive syllables, meaningless in their monotony. I am a creature of flesh and blood and bone, and I would indeed open my veins for this sacrifice, but my lips are already red, and your eyes already the calm blue of sky and sea. I am yours, but I see only tremulous arcs of light, and driftings of dust and tiny particles--and their dance beckons and entrances me.