His lips smacked of goldenrod and dandelions.
They were gritty as the crevasses of a chanterelle that you just can't clean the depth of, but at the same time don't want to.
The dirt from his lips found its way under my fingernails and as I bit them down I was reminded of the salt he replenished in me.
He was butter, and I was spread.
I confused his arms for beet greens and when they touched me I knew them to be red ribbon sorrel, the citrus etching itself into my skin.
His eyes were nectarines into which mine ravenously stared until I could see the stones at their very core.
If toes he had, they were Umbrian truffles. Dank and grainy, unctuous and alluring.
When we laid down together, we were a delicacy.
We were simple tomatoes, reclined in an oven of our own design.
We awoke just as our flesh began to pucker and bubble.
We had the good salt.
We were perfectly seasoned.
No comments:
Post a Comment