I named her Africa #Wattys2015

[twenty eight]

My back scalded sweat
as I approached her until
our feverish foreheads met.

Fanned by her dry breaths,
the fire crept upon my skin,
such that, wherever she touched,
blisters threatened to emerge.

My fingertips,
charged with thorny tingles,
settled upon her cotton neck,
while my thumb sent her shivers,
putting her sanity at stake.

She tufted her lower lip
under her teeth
still, with a stronger grip,
I bore my eyes in hers,
holding back my instinct.

"Do you want this?" I said,
taken aback by the coarse texture
of my voice.

I had her tranced in constellations,
humming the secrets that held her back
in the masses of empty space,
where shoutings were helpless and
cries didn't evaporate.

She was submerged under
blissful satellites,
that drew circles
around the same axis.

"I shouldn't," she breathed,
locking eyes with me,
"but I do."

So I closed the gap between us.

And her powdered lips melted in my
mouth.

Frictionless.
Warm.
Malleable.

Like salt mending with the ocean
and the clouds dispersing high above.

She became my own little flower,
stealing my oxygen when in the dark,
but giving me air under the light.

And so she moved with grace,
slowly and abrasive,
sweltering my skin in arousement
and sizzling my insides with anxiety.

Because there was never an enough
with her,
her supple, feathery character
left me exceptionally perplexed.

She could be the sunrays in

summer

and become glaciars in

winter

bloom her petals in

spring

only to let them drop in

fall.

She parted her lips
and I deepened the kiss,
taking her head in my hands,
and churning her hair
like in the dunes the wind does
with the sand.

But then someone banged the door,
and she seemed to know who it was.

"Wait, Chiara," I panted exasperated.

She already had her hand on the
handle,
but shut her eyes tightly
at the mention of her name
from a voice breaking,
so fragile.

"Put this on," I added, taking off my sweatshirt, "It'll, at least, cover up some of the coffee stains."