I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
Sonnet XI ~Pablo Neruda
I lie there waiting. The smell of candles and perfume from the bath filling the room. The window has been more than cracked, it has been opened to the cool night air. The breeze blows cold into the room raising gooseflesh on my still damp body.
I lie in anticipation.
Waiting for you.
I have waited so long. The anticipation has turned to hunger and I know you see that in my eyes. You come to me then. Sliding between my thighs, whispering words of love and passion in my ear. I am wrapped up in the smell of you. Fresh from the shower, hair still damp as I run my fingers through it.
I love your lips.
I love the way the soft flesh surrenders under my exploring tongue. I love the taste of you in my mouth.
I want your lips on mine. Want to get as close to being inside of you as I can. I turn over and climb on top of you.
Tonight, lover, you are mine.
I feel your heat rise. The sweat pours from us as the cold wind attempts to invade and hush the rush of my desire, but your stroking only makes the tantalizingly cold air more delicious, my body and skin more taut for your touch. This cold winter night is not enough to cool me, not nearly enough to silence my passion for you. It only raises my desire to excruciating heights.
Tonight I will not be satisfied with just once.
I want you again and again.
Is this the passion of Ares and Aphrodite, Eros and Psyche, Catullus and Lesbia?
The passion of Tristan and Isolde?
The passion of years?
Yes I think it is.
The passion of lovers who know each other well. Hands that need no guidance. Fingers that know exactly where they are going in the bare light of a candle. At the very least this must be the passion of the ages. Locked forever in each strand of DNA that has been passed down, all of those strands colliding have led us here.
To this bed.
On this cold winter's even.
The only world that exists for us tonight.