scents, sense, sensuality, the sensational.

Can you feel sensations passing through your body? - Separate from you, but within you, no less – The channeling of a carnal curiosity – A bloodiness you bleed for. How about when you touch the face in front of you—appearing like an outline finely drawn into the wallpaper’s background—do you smell him around you? If it is, you do, does he then become apart of the closeness that surrounds your existing space? Letting the palm of your hand fall off the surface texture of his face, having it sink through the air and then swirl up underneath the passage of your nose – do you smell him on you? Looking inside the cup of your hand, can you see the text of his essence written and wedged between the wrinkled scars of your handprint? It looks like you had been cut by a blade and sewn back together, some time ago—a jagged line, how it came about, you will always remember. Stitched by a needlepoint, he has been woven through you, at the end there is a tie and a bow that can barely be shown. Inside the world, the night hangs the sky, appearing like a parachute dyed indigo above your headiness. The city speaks through its slumber, but you cannot understand what it hopes to mean because it sounds like a broken piano playing notes that hang off tune. You come closer to him. Why?—because at night one only should. Lashes linger over his neck and he thinks “this feels like a spider’s legs dancing through a child’s hair.” But he does not tell you what he thinks. He does not show you he focuses on what he feels. Instead his chosen words, hitting the air and breaking the glassy silence of sensuality, are “I remember this.” Leaving his impression as a passing moment, you interject instantaneously, How can it be that I remember your taste? He is exactly the same, you think. This is why I prefer signature scents—a smell your heartbeat can remember. “My scent is different today than it was then,” he tells you nostalgically. It is more than a sense of scent, I say speaking to myself. Last night bled into the early hours just before six in the morning, and even then as I was falling behind the curtain of sleep, my tongue traced him and I could taste him on my teeth.

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i like silk colored creme, slips for their simplicity, sparkling mineral water, when soap suds can stand out because skin is tanned gold, scholarly supplies, signature scents, sensual spaces of solitude, the significance of subtleties, a beat that makes you go, candles burned by the night's intensity, a surface's gleam, a kiss whose quality is a surprise and the power in a glance.