Day 8: Love is [insert phrase]

A waking dream, a trick played by your unconscious on the present. It makes you crazy, half mad, smoke mazed, causes you to see things that aren't really there, not really. A cloud, fog of Hashish for the senses.

Images become sharper, clearer, etch themselves in your memory for slow, pleasurably torturous future recall. The curve of a cheek over you, silhoutted against dim light, the fall of a smooth fringe over sulky cheekbones so close, so close. The play of his smile and above all, the flash of his dark, eyes as his teeth gleam, sweetly predatory as you lose yourself in Him.

Skin, gleaming, sultry, warm as it merges with His, so smooth, firm. Hard. Exhalations, slow breaths in the cool, slightly clammy night breeze. The soft, crisp sheets pillow around and mix with the sublime little puffs of affections, kisses butterflied and pressed against temples, jaws, napes meaning everything and nothing. Ephemeral emotion. Moments pass, time stands still for this night, an hour before dawn.

Our eyes meet. I look at the Boy. He looks at me. We share a smile.

I pull Him to me and embrace Him tightly.