La Petite Mort

I desire to stick like sweat to his skin.
To cover him completely in an embrace so natural.
To paint him with smiles and invade his very pores with happiness.
To un thaw a frozen heart with the flush of fervor attached to the rise of a unified crescendo.

I want to watch him lie down and die in my lap, face turned and buried in his golden hair, eyes squeezed shut against the overwhelming agony of being too overwhelmed and yet underwhelmed. Just waiting. for the end of this beautiful misery.
I want to sing, into his ear, the breathy the oh's and ah's of my joyful happy death.

Such a happy death.
I desire to relive it, those muggy nights with the only witness being the street lamp buzzing with life.
Choking back the sweet benefaction of delight as I try to quiet the delirious wails of an internal b**st.
Fan blades whistling into the quiet of my mind as I too collapse into the thin film of diaphoresis.
Only to become entangled in the wild forest of his sunrise strands.

Just to be re birthed to beg for it again.
The sultry desperate clinging and whimpers that coat, completely, the moment of la petite mort.
Which feels not so petite at all.
It feels like an oppressive ocean drowning me in his skin and hair and eyes and lips.
Pulling me under and into myself. A prison of titillation, satisfaction, thrill, gratification, any word that can describe pleasure. A prison that I yearn to die in, forever encased until I am only fluid, bonding, like sudor to the husk that contains a beautiful monster that bursts forth like a spike to impale me again.