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I dab my wrists with oils that stain my skin the color of saffron.
The cinnamon-sweetness perfumes me, and it’s like a window into my soul—a window dressed in silk finery and adorned in pearls.
I lie on my bed, the covers crimson-red, like the center of a rose. Like the dark red of a lush dahlia. The red of fertile blood. The red of anger, redemption, love, and truth.
My hair cascades down my shoulders. Stray strands, like threads of gold, are pushed around by the late summer breeze.
And in this moment, I embody myself fully.
Curves and all. Mistakes and all. Traumas and all. Tenderness and all.
Beauty and all.
I inhabit exactly who I am.
In this moment, I don’t pretend to be anyone else. I don’t even want to be anyone else. No, the once long-lost song of me is brought to loud, luscious life again.
It feels bold—and perfectly daring.
For in this moment, I settle into the fleshly soul-skin of who I am. Who I was. And who I am becoming. All three meet in this moment, like muses.
A harp plays softly in the background.
A thick moon rises.
I am naked.
My supple skin glistens in the fine tendrils of moonlight, slick with coconut oil, radiant with lust and the purity of devotion.
I lie on my side and let night enter me—as the golden sun of daylight fades, a subtle darkness is ushered in, one hue at a time.
And I love how it is everything the day cannot give me—cool, dark, still, slow, calm, cloaked in velvet that glistens with stars.
I have yearned for this kind of stillness my whole life. I drink from its capable nectar now.
And I am ready.
I unfold, before he arrives. I unfold, for myself. And this is why it shall please him.
Oh, and when he arrives, with subtlety and strength, the smell of autumn leaves and sweat emanating from his skin—I shudder in delight.
His long, dark hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail. He is tall, with the kindest eyes I have ever seen, their gentleness blazes godliness and a steady fire that can keep truth alive.
And suddenly, this room is not a room—it is a temple, and this bed is the temple floor.
And the night smells like love, like incense, like magnolias, like holiness and lust—the sparks of a thousand desires that meet in this moment.
And so he strides closer, meeting me with those dark brown eyes that are ripe with longing.
He takes my head in his hands. So gently.
And he keeps looking, admiringly kneeling before me, as though his gestures speak the words his lips don’t need to, “My Queen.”
As though the delighted look on my face written with fire says, “My King.”
Dedicated to the hopeful lovers, this is.
For I look at his lips, like two pillowed rubies, eager and waiting, prepared forever for this. This very day.
Gazing into each other, as we do—
Time melts, fades.
We get beyond the fluff of it all,
And begin to penetrate the quivering truth of life itself.
His face remains serious, but not solemn—it whispers with the depths to which he can feel. The depths that are echoed in my very own heart.
He is the sort of man—strong and gentle at the same time—that I once thought was a fabled creature. No, he exists in the flesh, right before me. He is real.
I am inspired.
And the silk sheets of the bed, crimson red, stick to my skin.
I am eager—sweat beads drip down my body, drenching me, like lines of poetry.
Our breaths halt.
Desire leaps like a tiger—
And our lips meet.
In this kiss, our story begins.
~
AUTHOR: SARAH HARVEY
IMAGE: UNSPLASH/HANNA POSTOVA
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