Adore

Her hair, brushing the immaculate curve of her back, painted a picturesque landscape where I wallow for hours. Her skin was the softest shade of brown, as soft as the first collision of our stares, and the first touching of our skin. She has a million faces, and they affect me a million ways. The wind would blow and pull on her hair, and she would smile as we loathe the world. We gauge time with cigarettes, with the last puffs marking the death of time, giving us the excuse to talk more, and more, and more.

I feel her rising and falling as the sun showers her with pixels of light. I trace her brown, supple skin, fluidly, from her navel to her neck, where my lips rest and my breath flow. She awakes, and so do I.