I give you a present

by coffeeaddict

I give you a present.

Touch it,

it crackles like an old-school ceiling fan that lifts whiffs of perfume and whispers of hair from graceful shoulders.

Smell it,

sweet as summer rain when fingertips first touched and intense like the ambrosia of discarded lace lingerie.

Hear it,

the sky storms in the not-box as dramatically as the first flutter of your lashes at first light.

Taste it,

(no you can’t),

but take heart, you can taste its addiction to the riotous contradiction of speeding through cross junctions and curling up in a safehouse.

See it,

but only with it.

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