I can still smell him on me, on my clothes, as though I only just left his embrace, as though I only just escaped his presence.  It lingers here with me, on me, around me, drawing forth recollections both old and new, memories of times and places past, of sights and sounds, and of pleasures both gross and subtle.  He is there with me in all of them, and I remember his touch, the way he gentled my passions, his fulfillment… and mine.

"…not since we were at the cabin…" he said, and I believed him.

How the words seemed unnecessary and clumsy.  I felt what was said.  Like Gustavo Santaolalla's "De Usuahia a la Quiaca", the strings tug from within, melodically communicating that which could not be translated, and the flute piercing me to the core, painfully reaching within to inspire the utmost joy.

The music fills the space we inhabit.  Encircling us, it joins us together; playing notes felt more than heard.  We are enshrined within its call, and each other.

I knew it to be true: not since the cabin.  I felt it in my heart, knew it in my mind, and every part of my body hailed this certainty.  Other times, other places, other consummations, but not like this, not since then.

Lending credence to the memory, the music drew us to another time, another place, and to one another, solidifying the present, forever and indelibly recorded in every fiber of our beings.  I am enchanted.  Drunk on music and mood, overcome by the unmistakable desire that can be felt all around me.  And him.  I am lost in the moment.

Two became one.  Lustily reaching hands.  Intertwining bodies.  Mouths pressed firmly together, as if perhaps we can absorb each other that way, take in the full essence of the other.  You cannot forget times like these.

I cannot fathom where there might be space between us.  I have no grasp on the outline of him or me.  We are no longer individuals; we are inseparable, indistinct one from the other.

It is the dance of desire, and we sway unknowingly to its steps, leading, following, the music swirling around as we swirl around each other.  Just he and I, in this place, commandeering a brief moment for the two of us and only we two.  It is our time.

And it is over far too soon.  Our lips meet one last time, our tongues eagerly performing one last minuet.  I can feel his warmth, much as before, satiating desperate entreaties passing silently between us.

How long can my lips linger here?  What amount of time passes before these yearnings take flight again?  Whence comes the strength to divide this fleshly aperitif, summoning us to dine once more at a carnal table?

I turn and go.  Like the kiss and so many other experiences shared between us, this too shall be remembered, cherished, and silently craved for all time.

Can this desire of him be satisfied?  Will this longing ever be contented?

I hope not.  And I inhale deeply.