A Sense of You

The first sight of you when you walk into the room.
The way you shine when you smile.
The reproachful deflection of your eyes when I tell you that you are beautiful. 
The way you look at me when you want something more for me, or something more from me.

The smell of your hair when I have my face buried in it.
The scent of the soap that you use, which comes back to me vividly every time that I think of you.
The lingering traces of you that you leave behind on the pillows even after you are gone, reminding me that you were really here.

The sound of your bare feet on the wood floor of my apartment.
The timbre of your voice, soft but sure.
The quiet of your clothes slipping off.
The rustling of you sliding into my bed.
The resonance of my lips pressing against your forehead.
The sigh of your lips pressing against mine.  
All the little sounds that escape you when you are excited about something, anything.

The sweetness of your mouth pressed to mine.
The saltiness of your skin on a warm day.
The taste of your sex, when you press yourself needfully against my mouth, honey sweet and musky and like rain on a summer afternoon.

The warmth of you, pressed against me.
The softness of your skin beneath my fingers.
The weightlessness of your arm when it's wrapped around mine.
The silkiness of you hair, when I tangle my fingers in it.
The intertwining of our fingers, when your hand is in mine.
The way that it felt to wrap my arms around you, then and now and always.