Her arm. Classical, sleek and familiar.
Her wrist. A cylindrical hearth, emboldened by a coarse, circulating red, dying to tell a secret.
Her hand. Gentle. Delicate.
Her navel, tucked away beneath the cushioned surface of her abdominal muscles. The t-shirt that veils it. The disregard of this veil and the hubris that ensues. The lips that make contact and vow loyalty to an order that shall outlast them both. The moisture created by the repression of his desire and the beating of her heart. The isolated space between the opening of his mouth and a vulnerable layer of truth. The fingers that impress upon her waist in a declaration of hope, yet intrude upon her stomach in search of something true. The chaos and frustration of that moment. The impossible heat associated with longing.
The celestial barrier, the birth of galaxies, the creation of man, the span of several million years, suffered in three inches. If I walk away now, I could save myself.
But if I kiss her again…