It reveals in glimpses and scatters...it is the noise of passing by. It is the arc of an eyebrow.
It is the stare, it is the burnt-black coals that smolder as she adds tiny dry leaves to a spark she creates and fuels the flame with a smile.
It is an afternoon of her, earth-tones and the scent of a wood-burning fire, beckoning from the other side of a place you had once seen but didn't really notice. It is an impression, an imprint. Not quite a tattoo but a bruise. It is a palpitation.
It is the scent of her from slightly behind her, the quick vampire move to the hollow of her neck, the slight salt taste of her skin behind her ear, where her hairline falls. It is the warmth of shampoo and potions, mixing in the day with her, cleansing the day with her.
It is the distance between that sometimes caves inward, drawing in slowly, moving in closer, proximity, nearness, adjacency. The heat radiates like embers...scorched earth from where she walked across me.
It is a quickening. A tightening. It is a clenching, a clutching. It is the collapse of ice in a cocktail. It is a stutter, a misstep. It is a skipped beat. It is a disruption. A distraction.
An eclipse of a sun by a darkening moon. It is the breath against a candle flame.
Lipstick left on a glass. Lipstick left on a cheek. A smear, a smudge. A scent that arrives and vanishes. A stain, blood-red and permanent.
It is the blue wind of a Texas evening, starlit and slightly warm, watching the day disassemble itself in the West like the colors of burning fires, oranges and scarlets, pinks and salmons, matching the colors she lights with her touch.
It is the warmth of a tidal pool, salty, immersing in the greens of a sea, reminiscent of a taste of her skin where the neckline meets the shoulder, like the place where small waves crest on a beach.
It is an invasion, a corruption. It is a fever, not quite scarlet. It is a haste. It is a sting, a tiny bit. It is an irritation.
It is a pinch. It is a nip. It is the nick of teeth in a playful bite. It is the taste of a kiss.
It is a crush, a weight. It is a tug, it is a pull. It is the collapse of two vertebrae, pushed together by a fall. It is a warm oil with a hand to knead across a back, to relieve, to relax, to revert to a time when bones were perfect.
It is the insert of a needle, it is the introduction of a day with you in it, it is the plunge of the narcotic and it is the coursing through my veins, the sweet drug that it is the daily dose of you.
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