A Gentle Forest
The same way that I can sit in a forest for hours, eyes open wide in awe at the beauty of the life that surrounds me in every direction, I can get lost in the touch, the taste, the thought, the sight of him.
As I cup his face in my hands, I fall deep into his luminous, starry gaze. His eyes twinkle when they meet mine, reminiscent of a calm lake; the pull that tempts one to brush their hand across the still water to feel the cool dampness on their hand and watch the ripples travel across the surface. His perfect curls fall to the side of his face like ferns along the side of a woodland path, reaching out and listing softly as they bend towards the earth. I can close my eyes and still envision every inch of his face, from his forehead where I have laid a thousand kisses to his perfect nose; his soft cheeks like green, rolling hills on his face's landscape, flowers dotting the hills only making them that much more beautiful.
I imagine leaning in to touch his lips to mine, and I feel butterflies emerging and fluttering in my stomach like a forest that's been rejuvenated by the arrival of monarchs after their long journey. Our lips meet delicately, like the soft touch of a butterfly's wings. I can feel his breath mix with mine, like a soft summer breeze flowing through a grove, wisping between trees and warming all that it touches.
I can feel his hands glide over mine, the smoothness of a perfect skipping stone found along a river. However I could never throw this rock to the creek to see it skip across the surface once or twice; instead, this is the rock that I would keep in my hand, in my pocket forever, there to hold and touch and love every day forever - for it is the perfect stone. Our hands intertwine like the velcro-hooks of burdock seeds, forever holding on to one another and fitting together perfectly, as if designed for that very purpose.
His body is a living manifestation of the power and grace of nature. Our lips meet like waves crashing onto the shore, with passion and intensity. Our bodies move together, movements powerful and synchronized. Similar to the way trees sway in the wind and are caressed by its force at different moments, we can hold each other tenderly and mutually explore the depths of our desire. Nails leave marks, leaving permanent marks like engravings on the trunk of an old maple tree. Lips turn to teeth. Bruises are left trailing up the path from his collarbone to under his chin, the trails branching out and leaving his body bruised and bloody in my wake. His body ripples against mine, in consentual turmoil. I relish exploring the woods aimlessly, but I find that I always end up at the same destination.
A storm is good for a gentle forest every once in a while.