Her Neck

Fully tilting her head to the left, she bares the elegant subtle arc of her pale neck to me. Though plain to see, her neck is one of my favourite secret of hers. I prop my right index finger at a spot on her neck just below her earlobe. Then let it slide down, languidly tracing the graceful outline of her neck, shoulders then arms, feeling the softness of her fair skin yielding willingly and tenderly.This is a sensory experience. So with her leave, she lets me place my nostrils just behind her right ear, the tip of my nose almost touching it, and breathe her in as if smelling a flower, savouring each whiff of her faint though fresh scent. I want to bottle her and sprinkle her smell wherever I go. Be a lamppost in her dew morning mist. Ah! Then it is time for kisses, those faint soft touches of the lips that flutter and alight on her warm glowing skin like a butterfly wounded with Cupid's arrow. Sometimes a light lick or two lets loose and fall between my teeth, grazing and tasting her with the end of my tongue. We surrender to gravity. And every once in a while as I am doing all this, I stop to receive the pressure of her cheek against my forehead or nose, or if I am indulged, cheek. The firmness of the nape of her neck, like her beautiful resolution of love. Now I am hungry and need more. My lips fall to her neck like a light drizzle of rain, in sweet relief. Still famished. I bite her right shoulder playfully, feeling her tendons and muscle between my teeth, filling my mouth with her. She moans softly. I feel bold. I grow hungrier still. I leave her shoulder, climb up on it until I loom over her, and see her pink lips below me like a stoic flower facing the coming storm. And then I am upon her. We are drinking each other in. She is my food, my air, my shelter. But let me drown in her.

My beautiful one.

Death.

I am ready.