Orange

A love letter of sorts

Within the storm of the late night, she sat on my bed, the dim lights articulating her figure. I came into the room with a plate of freshly cut oranges, the pulp roving across the porcelain surface. The room was silent with only the murmur of the soft cotton blankets shuffling around as I sat down in front of her. We make conversation, merely filling the air between us, for I can’t let my mind wonder what we would be doing instead, just yet. She reached for a ripe, luscious orange slice, becoming brighter as she brought it into the light of the small lamp beside us. Her fingers were delicate, but not cautious, for despite her dislike towards dirt and grime, she let the pulp make a home down her hand.

Slowly, she brought it up to my lips, not letting my eyes dart anywhere else, her gaze unwavering. My mouth opening, neck tilting, accepting the fruit. The orange was sweet and tender, her thumb making sure the nectar not to dribble down my chin. Each morsel savored as I bit down on the fruit once again, our eyes not faltering.

As her eyes gazed down, a flame seemed to burn me from the inside out, hungrily. The gradual undoing of one another’s desires, manifesting in wet sheets and pillows against bedframes. I wanted to feel every beautiful thought along her tongue. Dancing alongside mine, I needed more, I needed it all. Every touch and caress charged with a deep longing, sculpting every crease and contour of her body. Every touch, a palpable promise of more. Scattered air pushing behind my ear, her head weighing down on my shoulder. It didn’t matter the pain, the pulsing against tender bodies, for the pleasure arose a tint of bliss, a complete surrender. Our love immortalizing as quickened breathing and anything but cessation.

In between the moans lingering throughout the room, I said I love you, like the many times I have told her before. These words fall out of my lips, and become as tangible as the pulp dripping down her fingers. For when I say I love you, I mean that every fruit reminds me of you. Every time, without doubt, the ghost of your hands places itself on my waist as I take a bite. As my love for you lives within every seed planted within every garden, their livelihood feeding off my adoration for you, an everlasting source in which will never cease.