Odalisque

Your lover poses in your memory across a rumpled bed, her red hair spread like flame, her green eyes unblinking. The photo has been misplaced but you can still close your eyes and recall the way she lounged there, lean and bared, her body the languid melody of a song you wanted to sing again and again.

The cream-softness of her skin in the afternoon sun and the pinkish peach of one erect nipple just barely visible in this position make your fingertips tingle from a longing to touch. You remember her this way, still wet with desire, and your lust resurfaces like a fever, so many years later.

A deep breath brings the perfume of her skin and you find the taste of her still fills your mouth like wine. A salted-iron, earthy note that coats your senses and forces your eyes closed in a swooning, contented bliss. How deeply you drank of her, in all her warm and secret places, and she quenched a thirst you didn't know you had.