Trance

Much after the lights have been turned off, my eyes hover over the familiar contours of your body. The light from the distant streetlamp seeps through the gaps of the curtains, softly gracing the outlines of your face. Your right leg is sprawled all over me, the right hand comfortably resting on the curve of my slightly disoriented hip, cradling me close enough to trace the many desires of my heart masterfully sketched all across your face.

I observe how involuntarily my body attempts to sync itself to the rhythm and pattern of your breathing. My lips part about quarter of an inch with the faintest of a pop sound, trying to inhale whatever of you hung about in the air. The ultimate test comes in willing myself to not move, freeze, building that strong electricity around, feeding every passing cruel second.

My left hand moves as though on its own, one lone, scared finger inching its rebellious way towards your face, ready to break the trance and get quenched any moment.

In one swift, artistic movement, your right arm shoots into the air and rests my outstretched hand, gently pulling me into you by my waist. The kiss is barely a whiff of air, almost magically brushing past my lips. 'Sleep,' you murmur. On the rise and fall of the tune your body carelessly strummed, my imagination had found its home.