It was the most perfect kiss I've ever experienced.
I can barely find the words to describe it.
Her skin was so soft and white and beautiful.
Her lips were luscious and tender and moist.
She was beautiful.
In that moment, she was the most beautiful, most amazing, most spectacular, most perfect woman. Ever.
Every time I try to remember, it brings me such joy.
God. I love her.
The memory of her.
The way her lips gently caressed my lips.
How her tongue pressed softly against mine.
Such sorrow to think that it won't ever happen again.
The touch of pale, soft skin under my fingertips, to set my nerves aflame.
To caress her cheek once more would be enough to be the cure of this terrible ache.
The passion. The fire.
Why do I love so much the memory and despise so much the remembrance of it?
Parting is not sweet, but sorrow.
If someone's hope, I could but borrow.
For hope has all but left me dead.
And devils feast on what angels dread.