This is the moment. This very moment of touch across blurred lines like a drunk conversation. This is the dashed white lines reflected from an irreverent moon. This is finger tips across the soft hills of breasts and valley of your stomach that continues down the curve of your thighs and the arch of feet. It is a night where words on a paper will never describe adequately, crumbled up and caught up against tongue and lips. Tangled and twisted, roots of a sad oak, naked legs entwined. This night is where words fail across mouths and find their way floating across cheek and against bone. And in a quick moment across you, I have vanished into the night of words without you.
