Vanilla: Sensuality and Sensibility

I said I wanted you to rest well; but secretly wished behind my normal words. I wished that your dreams would haunt you. I wanted your dreams to not give you any rest; only memories, snaphots, and remembrances of my passing you by on the street, or at the library perhaps.
I wanted your dreams to enfold you in humidity and stillness. I wanted the tatse of them to slide over your lips like my kisses; I wanted the touch of the memories to slide along your spine like my hands might have done. I desired the flesh inside you to ache with longing- I wanted to be in your dreams. I wanted the smells of your rest to haunt your pillow with the scent of my hair.
I needed your sweat-drenched skin to take me, in all that I am or was to you; and take me only for that reason. I needed, oh so desperately needed you to rise up inside my dreams and let passion glue our eyes together. Four A.M. never looked so sweet.
I waited on you to come the next day; as I rolled my fingers through the dough I was cooking with. It was sweetened with sugar and flavored with cocoa. The thoughts of you flushed my face so that I looked like an athlete who had just came in from a winter run. My hips swayed softly with a rhythm I couldn’t hear or feel. I could only see it- and taste it. As I licked the dough off my fingers, I could see you come through the door to the kitchen, take my face in your hands, and you picked me up and slid all the ingredients off the island. All the newly bought bottles of Vanilla extract crashing to the floor with little shatters carressing my bare ankles.
As you lifted me up, and we began to pulsate with one heart, I knew I’d always remember the moment.The moment when golden sunlight fell through the yellow cafe curtains, the warm water slapped the sink as it fell from the tap, and the stove timer beeped precariously to let me know the oven was ready. I was ready too, and as you and I made fire, I realized that our fire was warmer than the savannah sun outside or the oven beside us ever could be. I recall that just as your fingers grated into my skin, and my mouth covered yours with little gasps and kisses, that all I could really feel, smell, or be, were the the five shattered bottles of Vanilla extract that slid their brown liquid over the warm floor, and from the warmth evaporated to send silken threads of their fragrance around us like a wild Angel’s kisses.