What is the color of my skin when you are hidden beyond the horizon? What is the color of your skin when my heart swells with joy at the sight of you? What is the color of your touch when I clasp your hand in mine? What is the color of my touch when we embrace?
What is the color of my mind when you see me in your thoughts? What is the color of your mind when you dream of me? What is the color of your mind behind the words you speak to me? What is the color of my mind when you remember me?
What is the color of your voice when I hear you from afar? What is the color of your voice when you murmur in my ear? What is the color of your breath when you whisper in the night? What is the color of my breath when my heart beats against your breast?
The color of your skin and the color of your touch and the color of my mind and the color of your voice and the color of my breath are less important to me than the color of our love. You paint my heart from the palette of your heart, a rainbow of touch and taste, sight and sound, smells that excite me, make me tremble, and send shivers through my skin.
My skin. Your skin. Our skin protects us and bares us. Our skin is a poor form of identification for the self that lies beneath. With eyes closed your skin is a thrilling sensation to my fingertips. With eyes open do I see you differently?
I kissed you and you smiled and my lips brushed across your brilliant white teeth. Your smooth neck beneath my nuzzle and my fingers traced the sweat along your spine. The long, sensuous curve of your hips and legs, and the firmness of your calves, and the soft yield of your thighs sent me above the place we lay and I held onto you like a long comfortable sigh. Your back to me and the moonlight reflected in your skin and my arm over your shoulder as you closed your eyes and your smile and I swallowed your love-sound. I tightened my arms around you and your tight curls tickled my cheek and your breasts filled my hands and your nipples spoke of joy in the blackness of the night.
What is the color of your smile when you recall the night the rain wet us through the window and the peacocks cried from the hills and the sound of the waterfalls rushed around us and we breathed so deeply of the air that smelled of plumeria, gardenia, and the jasmine that blooms at night? What is the color of the time we spent caressing one another and your fingers traced my chest?
My memory of you is the color that gives birth to all colors. My memory of you is a racing heart, a smile, a touch, a scent, a sound, a feeling, a dream, a taste.
O, Zee; what is the color of your memory of me?
Image: Morning Lust by Michelle Buhl-Nielsen. avisca.com
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