Limerence?

I am tethered by gossamer faith in an unseen deity, only devout when my prayers are answered. Gratitude eludes me, a language I know I should remember, yet my tongue is fluent only in desire: an insatiable hunger for what could be.

I want serendipity. Luminescence. Star-crossed.

I am desperate for ephemeral moments: soft sunlight filtering through cream cotton sheets, casting warm, golden light and leaving promises of a tangible tomorrow on our skin. Visions of a future steeped in delicate devotion consume me. I am feverish. I see snapshots of laughter spilling sepia over sleepy summer mornings. A gentle morning breeze tangled in silk, veiling a balcony that blurs beyond the grasp of my mind. Bread, buttered in a kitchen we haven’t lived in yet, and hands clasped soft beside a river learning to ripple only our names.

Consume me in tender worship. Show me quintessential romance, hidden in undiscovered connection. Burn constellations into my soul. I want you to find me. Grant me silence, the kind that is only found through divine omniscience. Secrets that I will live and die by. Sacred vows.

This is more than simple desire. I want to find you. I crave cracking the enigma: slipping under your skin and coaxing out the soft summer fruit, tasting the very essence of what lies behind your sternum. I want to live in the labyrinth of your capillaries. Shed the boundaries of flesh and bone. Let me trace the lines of your soul until I could recognise them in the void that exists between celestial galaxies.

Dorothea Blythe