I want cotton candy. I want the fluff of pink threads melting against the warm of my tongue, the sugar making my mouth flood. I want the smell of the hot machine to make me smack my lips. I want to feel the misleading weight of the stick shifting weight with the wind on my fingers. The pull of the cotton from the foamy tingled rosy mass. I want the opalescence of the cloud, the cheating light, to send me into a haze of imagination, rendering expectation, rendering desire.
I want a massage. I want the hot stones on my back, resting and radiating, while some stranger’s hands push stiff soles of my feet into circles. I want to hear the hissing of the steam escaping from the vents, surrounding my body, slowly becoming a part of it. I want to feel the oil smoothly glazing my firm skin, thawing every hair, dissolving every line on my skin. I want to feel the thick mud engulfing my feet, moulding around the shapes of my body, rising up my shoulders, around my neck, as I cautiously sit down in it. I want it to fill up every crevice, every nook, every empty space.
I want to shop. I want to see the clothes lined up, swinging lightly on their hangers, peeking from the racks. I want the radiant lights and the gyrating music seeping from the ceiling to intoxicate me into delusion. I want to feel the fabric slipping between my fingers, its texture, its colour, its maddeningly organised stitches. I want to be blinded by the gleaming silver of beads, the sparkle of stones, the dangling dizziness of tassels. I want to feel the coldness of the tiles on my tired toes and heels, as I twirl around in front of the mirror. I want the soothing yellow of the bulbs forming shadows under my curves, lifting curls of my hair, brightening my eyes.
I want love. I want to taste every inch of your body. I want to hold every bit of your skin in my mouth, my lips sucking at your warmth. I want my hands to feel every lump, every bone, every loose shiver. I want to hold your toes, your fingers, feel their stubby round formations. I want to listen to you speak of nothing relevant lying next to me, everything simple, anything personal, as my hands dance with yours in confusion. I want to smell your sweat when you wake up groggy. I want to see the rested smile on your face as you put your hands around me. I want to transcend from explicit instincts to calculated care, to soft unruffled conversations, to delicious kisses.
I want you. You taste like melted butter, even and warm, make me salivate as I touch you. You feel like fresh strawberries, tangy and citrus, attacking yet luscious. You look like the breezy sea, salted, calm, intense, unpredictable. You talk like monsoon, drizzling, tapping lightly on tin roofs, raging wildly with the wind, rumbling madly sometimes. You are like a dream, fleeting and inconsistent, fading and irregular. You are gentle like poetry, though scrambled like paint on a canvas. You are the music you make. You are drifting, dynamic, designed to imperfection, roughened, rocky, angry, beautiful.
You range. You make me love you madly.