Buttons

Credibility of a moment guides free falling fingers; sensitive digits gifted by flesh. Uneven formation is how I recognize these numbers, veins protrude sorrowful stress, smooth knuckles desire never to miss, rough as the work of touch, soft as the man I caress, remembrance of these hands I often forget; their journey is a mind somewhere else.

"I wonder what your wife must think...."

"I think of her always."

"Do you always button your shirts like this?"

"Only she would know."

"She must like to unbutton it for you..."

I extend beyond the curiosity of attractiveness; my emotion is natural instinct. Bluer than the Pacific ocean's regret for a storm sweeping away island coconuts, he contemplatively watches; I give to him my devout faith, another sense of belief.

Somehow navigation within creates a map regardless where I am.

I desire his lips which taste of no other than his self; coffee roast darker than ebony chocolate enchants my tongue. A jolt of acceptance worries me, I am faint for the tingling sensation of his hands wrapping the curve above my hips; I do not wear a waist as part of my milk garment. Recalling my attire clothes me as I am; white t-shirt, sport under dress, baggy blue jeans. My eyes cake salty tears; my hair frolics fluffy curls. Our kiss is a connection regretting the invention of telephones and wireless communication. Flavor of blush rose pinkness suckles from his bottom lip.

"Your lips must be taste buds."

"Your lips are better than coffee."

"Are you sure about that?"

"I rather drink from you than a recycled cup."

"Did they add cognac?"

"I might of...."

"How romantic...."

Cheeks slope a smile; crimson bows a gentlemen. His bottom lip is my dessert as he speaks.

"I can be romantic."

"Do tell...."

"I can't tell but I can show you."

"I am not much for surprises."

"You won't be disappointed."

Wearing Reebok sneakers underneath his long trousers he attempts to maintain composure through physical helplessness.

"You wiggle too much."

"You tickle too much."

"I want to touch you there...."

"This is the romance you want to show me?"

"You haven't seen it yet!"

"If you touch me there then I want to touch you there."

"See now that can be romantic."

Waiting for his touch is the hunger of pure water, unfortunately for romance novels I am the writer; his skin sheets snow upon the living dead girl. My chest is unaware what wings form from heathen's angels.

"Do you know you have those?"

"I do now...."

"Do you know what those do to me?"

"Obviously nothing romantic...."

"I feel romantic about them."

"Really...."

"I have names for them."

"Romantic names I hope...."

No words describe that which feels really damn pleasurable.

"That surprised me...."

"Did you like that surprise?"

"What do you think?"

My desire is the sliver of a grapefruit; I wish to taste juicy pulp. We search for the being without self conscious nature. I breathe deeply; I notice a hickey from my kiss. My guilt is quiet; I continue where I left.

"Can I do what you just did to my lip to where my hands are at?"

"Maybe...."

"I really need to do that."

"For romance?"

"Yeah...."

His chest is firmly tender at the tips; he moans between my lips.

"You feel incredible...."

"Am I really here?"

"At this point I don't care for reality; you feel too good to be true."

"I want to really be here."

"I want you here always."

"I got to ask my wife."

I pinch him a tad.

"What was that for?"

"That was for your wife."

"You think she liked that?"

"I certainly enjoyed it."

"It wasn't that bad."

I pinch a tad more with precision.

"Will you kiss and make me better?"

"Kiss you where?"

"Where I am injured."

His forehead is a goose down pillow resting a woman's pant.

"Now what were you going to do?"

"You will need to wait."

"Why is that?"

"I don't feel romantic anymore."

Desire cannot express possession. We are one despite numeric measurements. We savor sweetness instead of lactose intolerance; cheese is spoiled milk.