THE DRESS

FLOYD

I don't want to describe a dress, with colours that matched the girl I had hoped would wear it. A soft cream fabric was accented with large, scattered black and rose circles. The black, like her eyes, were bold and infinite. The rose, like her lips, was gentle and inviting.

I don't want to describe a day that we caressed each other on pure white sheets, on the highest level of a hotel skyscraper. I would take the silk underlining of the dress and watch the straps gently fall off her shoulder. I would kiss her chest and hold her head with my left hand as she arched backward and I would run my right hand around her silk waist.

I don't want to describe the moment that I looked in her eye as I gently placed her down on her pillow, and told her nothing more than my eyes could say.

I don't want to describe the feeling I got when she placed her fully sprawled hand against my face and ran her fingers slowly to my lips. The way she looked at me and touched my body so curiously. We were not strangers to each other, but every second we spent was a new moment of discovery.

I don't want to describe the moment I knelt in to place those lips against hers and I shut my eyes but not before I was sure she had shut hers, in satisfaction.

I don't want to describe the love making, the biting, the kissing, the licking and rubbing.

I don't want to describe how beautiful she looked in that dress.

I don't want to describe how the memory of her lying there in the bed, with the dress nearly falling off, would be the image I put myself to sleep with for the months to come.

I don't want to describe, I want to live it.

Again.

FLOYD