Touch
It's a finger dragging across sweat slicked skin, trailing through the moisture with no clear destination in mind. A finger nail scratching slightly to heighten the sensation, causing small shivers to race across the receptive surface, before settling in the pit of the stomach with an almost sickening sensation. A little jump to the heart rate as lips part to gasp in air, eyes closing, head being thrown back as the fingers press just a little bit harder, wanting, needing more as the tide comes in, pulling down, under, drowning in the waves of heat, longing, want, desire. Lips join the finger, moving down the spine, tracing the knobby points with gentle flickers of a warm tongue, breath gusting out to cool the silvery trail left behind, tremors dance across the flesh, back arching into, away from the mouth causing the torment.
It's a moment when all thought stops and all you can do is feel, feel your lover behind you, over you, overwhelming you with everything they are at that time. Their fingers tracing you, caressing you, possessing you, with their hands, lips, their skin sliding against yours as you fight for breath, gasping, arching, wanting to be everything they can make you, willing clay being sculpted into something new under their hands. Something bolder, brighter, free and clear, lost to them when all you wanted to do was find yourself in their arms. You're torn apart and put back together again, all in a single moment.
Fingers clenching, grasping trying to find purchase to push back or pull away, not knowing what you want when they push harder, grinding, leaking across you, pulling back and letting the air dry their emissions on your skin, and in that second, that time, you are what they have made you. You are reborn inside of them, outside of them, against them. A vision that they have created with the simple glide of fingers across your skin, a piece of artwork born from the act of wanting, needing, heat, desire, born in flames of wanting to be more. Something other than what you were born to be.
When its over, its over, you are no more or less then when you started, before things got beyond your control. You are what you were when you walked into the room expecting nothing, wanting everything, a mass of contradictions living inside the skin that just moments before had been on fire with the want, the need, the desire to just be. You are what a lover has made you, a craven wanting thing, bent for pleasure, sleepy eyes closed, as the doubts rush in, take over, overtaking your thinking, the way fingers are still sliding across your skin.
Slipping away, across the sheets, out of the cozy cocoon that you've both made, clothes sliding on over tender skin, chafing those parts that were handled roughly, reminding you of what you'd done, bringing the guilt, like a crashing wave across a cliff threatening to drown you. You're running, running away from being overwhelmed, from wanting, from needing to much, eyes not daring to meet, shying away, barely making any contact at all, voice hoarse from screaming mere moments before, and you're away. Gone like a distant memory, with just the scent of you on the sheets you'd recently vacated, and soon that will be gone as well, just a memory, a vague recollection of where you finally found it.
Its in those moments that you know. When you're so wrapped up in the scent, the heat, the desire that's trying to drown you, that's the place you always find it, the center of yourself, the white space that other people dream about, talk about, but never really understand. It's the focus for all the day to day dealings that seem to drag you down. You exist in that moment, when skin slides slickly against flesh, lips entangled and you're no longer two people but one body joined at the groin, you finally understand that you exist here inside yourself. You exist in touch.