It's the smell of nature trapped in a jar, released only by flames. it's the meat laden toothpick thrust in your hand in a mall. It's the warm, rain-heavy breeze on a sweltering summer day.
He rubs his hand along the seam of my pants as his lips tickle my neck. I shiver with subtle thrusts against his solid body. Fingers slip under my head and press me upward, holding me as if my motions quenched an insatiable desire. He moves his free hand around my body and grabs the small of my back.
Movies forget the physical touch. Songs forget the warmth of hands. Books forget the smell of two sould longing for release.
We forget how good, how easy, and how needed falling is.
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