The warm touch of his hand on her cheek.
Her drowsy anticipation of his lips softly brushing hers.
The exquisite pain of longing; waiting for him to navigate
the dusky, gilded river between them.
He laid her on a bed of poppies;
crowned her with a wreath of violets.
The heady perfume of him washed over her
in waves of scarlet and gold.
Breathless; floating between this world and the next...then the kiss.
From the first kiss to the last...I get drunk on your lips.
L.M. Betit 
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