Kindling

Suddenly, in my mind, you are a fire. Lying back and looking up at you I see it in the way you move almost silently, only the occasional soft breath sound, something between a moan and a sigh, as I watch you through careful, distant eyes. It's a thing I do, forcing myself to think deliberate thoughts while you kindle from a smolder to something more. "You are a flame and I am a wick," I joke to myself, being careful not to dispel the delicate balance with a laugh or smile. Interruption, the sudden evaporation of so much good in the world, would be a tragedy for me. Breathing in deeply I trace with my eyes up the faint line in the center of your stomach, loitering casually around your breasts and up your neck to your lips, barely parted, and then to your eyes. They are gypsy dark in the dim light, and I cannot tell if they are closed or if they are opened slightly, watching me. I imagine taking you in my arms, risking your capricious but gentle fire, and holding you close to my chest. You are wilder than I am and more beautiful. You frighten me and excite me and I feel, briefly, as though my pleasure and joy is just the grace of your playful, powerful whim. You bring me to the end of the strength of my will and I begin to lose control. Then your rhythms, the pulse of your legs and the quickening of your breath, whisper sweet things I am waiting to hear. Closing my eyes I feel my silly, empty thoughts burn away as I am overcome and consumed by you.