The blue light of the screen illuminates my candle lit features, my eyes visibly brighten, tiny lines of pleasure creasing at the corners, there’s a small red “1” in the corner of my mail icon.
My heart skips as I tap the app and see a message from you. The attachment opens and reveals a stunning picture. My eyes are immediately drawn to yours. Stunned. Your inner light captured, the beauty of you trapped behind those incredible eyes.
Your expression otherwise concealed behind your iPad, your hands have raised the tablet like the fan of a Geisha, evoking all the mystery and majesty of an emperor’s concubine. Your beautiful eyes, filled with innocence and purpose, allowing me to project my imagination and fantasize.
Slowly I search the screen for more details, your hair lifted off your slender, tender shoulders, and tied in a loose knot, again evoking exotic images of the Orient.
I feel your eyes following mine and the sense of connection floors me. My heart thuds, my breathing rises, I feel a flush in my loins, a warmth spreading through either side of my lower spine; from the lowest rungs of my false ribs, spreading out into my hip bones.
Your majesty humbles me, and my eyes drop down, my head bowing, subjugated, feeling myself brought under your domination, your control, your conquest. I’m intimidated by your beauty, the sheer depth of it, your light reaches so far inside me, opens me, and frightens me.
Somewhere a little boy feels the light and hurts. Emotions swirl, a flood of feelings rushing to the surface, a history of sensations suddenly given voice, finding their wings and taking flight inside me. Butterflies, dragonflies, a tumbling rush of energies flooding my tummy.
I try to take charge. The man in me rising to sooth the choir of childishly panicked irrational voices and lead an army of emotion toward affirmative action.
My eyes have closed as I search within, allowing myself a moment to collect and compose and consider.
Head lowered, I slowly open my eyes and see your toes, thin leather straps crisscross your slender feet, their curve could easily have been carved by Michelangelo, their likeness to antiquity as good as one might hope to find in the halls of St Peter’s Basilica, in the Vatican City of Rome.
I consider your ankles. The delicacy of their design. Elevated on those elegant heels. And fondly I find myself remembering the smudge of a tiny flower tattoo. It’s simple colours muted, the ink having slowly bled beneath the tender, supple and smooth silky surface of your ageless skin.
My eyes slowly reacquaint my senses with an archive of memories; the delicate, intimate details of your outline, the sheen of your skin, the youthful elegance of your lines.
My artists mind pencil sketching, landing light strokes on a vellum of paper, my confidence building as my eyes inch their way, drawing the fine curving lines of your calves.