Orange Tree Romance
The sound of her voice soothes you, like the scent of the orange blossoms wafting in the window, filling your lungs with air that makes you feel alive. She is reading, not with her voice, but with her soul. Bits of her heart are gliding down her cheeks, not out of sadness, but of an emotion to pure for humans to feel.
The dance of mirrors blurs the red lights below, and seems to drown out everyone below.
Without stopping, her hand begins to stroke your hair, and with her touch she lets you feel a sliver of what she feels.
Your hand moves to her neck, your fingers running down her shoulders, tracing invisible rivers. Drawing patterns of lace and things unseen.
Eyes lock, and souls speak, confessing secret loves, dances with demons. Fires awaken with passion to fierce to show with earthly bodies. In what might be seconds, eons, our souls are dancing, our former selves left to breath the air that in comparison seems stale.
The pleasure that is felt would surely send a human to their death, but in this form we can fly.
They speak of steamy romance, but we are steam, infinite and unconfirmed. We are the brush of wind on cool fall nights, unseen, so that few know its pure splendor. We are fire, consumed in raging passion, yet tender as the grass that peeks through melting snow. We are water, rushing to each other, bonded as one.
The experiences of life that seemed so thrilling and deep, now are as appealing as cheap, broken, plastic toys. The bodies we have left behind seem as cages to trap our hearts and souls.
Hearts burst with pleasure and passion, and the pieces sparkle more brilliant that the stars in the night sky. Eyes drip pure beauty, bodies glisten with love inexperienced by another.
Two opposites dancing in the night sky, two souls, who in the form of earth were dark and light. Now in the mystical, they are neither dark nor light, but of another dimension entirely: of colors unknown to eyes, that can only be seen with the heart. A heart full of passion, and that of pure desire.