Vanilla

You asked me why I bought chocolate chip cookies from the bakery instead of the cheaper ones in the bag. I hadn't really thought about it in any detail before that. After weighing my answer I said," I like the bakery cookies better because they seem more homemade to me. I pretend that someone has baked them for me and it feels like love to me."

You were thoughtful after that. I like that, how you get quiet and go inside yourself to ponder. The color of your eyes change from light blue to a deep sea green. Later that day you announced that you were going to learn how to make chocolate chip cookies for me... because you love me.

The sweetness of that statement was so powerful that it melted me inside. You love me. You bake cookies for me. I'm slain. Not only have you learned to bake cookies, they are the most delicious cookies that anyone has ever tasted. They are your signature dish. People you have shared those cookies with know you by your cookie baking skill.

Now when I smell vanilla it smells like pure love to me.

A Little Off the Top

This is our dance. I have been cutting your hair for years. That thick, commanding head of hair, the envy of men and summoner of women. Long before we loved each other, I cut your hair. It was dark chocolate brown then. Somewhere, at sometime I fell in love with you; you fell in love with me too.

It became more than a little off the top then didn't it. I could see how you leaned your head back and luxuriated in the scalp massage, how you would spark when my knees brushed against yours when I leaned in to brush the trimmed hairs from your face.

We dance like this for years. Every few weeks or when your gorgeous Pompadour gets unruly I cut your hair. You sit wrapped in a plastic shield and I hover around you, the buzz of the shaver raking through your locks. There is always a little more silver. That beautiful silver in you hair makes me wild. I never wear a bra when I'm cutting your hair. My teasing gift to you are the shape of my nipples bobbing at your eye level.

Pillow Case

Yes, I was the one who stole your pillow case. I took it, still warm even before you pulled out of the driveway to go to work. I cannot get enough of you, enough of how the scent of you triggers me like slightest breeze sets off a shower of raindrops to the forest floor.

I want to wrap your smell around me and remember again and again how that way you touched me overrides everything except the urge to arch my back. I'll wear your pillow case all day so it feels like you are near me. Even when I sit and write. I'll pause to wrap your pillow case around my fist and crush its scent to my nose, looking for you in the sense memory, evoking the delicious anticipation.

I am wicked that way. You will never realize until you read this that I have worn your pillow case next to my skin all day. It touched me all the day as I had thoughts of you. It is safely again enveloping your pillow, smoothed out, waiting for your sleepy head to fall on it.

Dream tonight of the way I smell when I'm lusting for you. Let it work like a spell. Find me in the sleepy darkness and mingle in the warmth of my pillow case.