Santa Fe

It is colder in Santa Fe.
The sun is glancing across the clouds, the twisted shrubs, and the dirt and ice packed streets. Everything is crisp and stark with a restlessness only winter imbues. I feel the same. I march up a street in the chilled shadows of crooked buildings. I hide my hands in my pocket and - smile. Pressing into my left fingers... The intricate textures of intricate shapes; soft, rough, synthetic. Tangled with my hand; your underwear.

I seek refuge in you.
My hand in your underwear, I'm walking across Santa Fe parking lots and snow drifts, but I don't see white snow, I see your teeth and the way your lips make shapes when you make that dangerous smile. Pink, parting, and the promise of teeth. Or your hair, a bold near black cascade framing your face, in stark contrast to the delicate stock of your neck. I could map the little lines in your neck, the soft and unbearable contours, or precisely where it terminates in the statement that is your collar bones. One part follows the next, and I'm thinking of your breasts and desperately wanting to bear their gorgeous weight, or thinking of your absurd embarrassment of them. I laugh.  I'm buzzing with the memory of your presence, your body wordlessly demanding my hands and lips. Fuck Santa Fe, I want to fuck you.

I can smell you on that lacy black piece of cloth.
I feel like the scent goes all the way to the pit of my abdomen and plants a warm hunger. Hindered by imagination I can almost sense you on the other side. Damp. Warm. I can almost feel your thigh against my check. Lace between my teeth. Your fingers in my hair. I want to punish you for being so irresistible by making you wait, but I can never wait long. I have to taste you.

    I'm coming back from Santa Fe, but it is you that I'm thinking of cumming.