Happy Valentine’s Day, loves! Has anyone mentioned they kissed?
❖❦✾✽❀✿ ❖❦✾✽❀✿ ❖❦✾✽❀✿ ❖❦✾✽❀✿ ❖❦✾✽❀✿ ❖❦✾✽❀✿
There were gardens, roses and sweetpea and oranges, all in blossom. There was a gloss over all of them, a haze of pollen, so that in the dawn the rooms of the garden were rose. So that in the blue part of early night there was blue mist.
Once I put candles for you all over the house, flowers and stars blooming in the dark.
Now, you put them all through the garden—you place your candles the way you place your kisses—my kisses, you tell me, once you give them to me—kisses where I don’t expect them, where the warmth catches me by surprise—so I shiver when I don’t mean to.
Between the roots of an orange tree where it flickers white; just above my elbow in the softest part, so your head brushes my breast as your lips work.
What am I saying? Orange blossoms in the snow? Your lips moving under my shirt, the cloth slipping over my arms as you tug the sleeves?
I want to taste your breath on my tongue. I want your silky hair in my fingers, your cheek on my neck, so I can feel the blush all the way through you. Rushing through your body. I can feel your heartbeat all through my skin and muscle and bone to my heart. We pulse at quadruple time.
White flames where white blossoms belong. Kisses instead of snow. Kisses instead of snowdrops, jasmine, the pale leaves of strawberries.
The tips of your fingers go white where they press my skin. Your lips go dark from kissing. Too much kissing. Never, never, never too much kissing.
There were gardens. Still are gardens. If every flower were a kiss—they are, they all are kisses—thousands, thousands, every color, every softness, ones that taste like pears and apples, kisses that smell like cinnamon and cilantro, kisses that feel like spring leaves and are slick as water.
Your mouth is on mine. Sweet and warm and firm as lilies. Wild as clover. You flicker, you whimper, you glow in half-light.