Blind in the pre-dawn ultra-indigo, her contours accommodated my touch ––lithe, long, and full. Smiles, a primal intent against candlelight––breathing words against my lips her eyes lingered, crippling soft, and insidious. I knew her taste for poetry, always Lorca after midnight. Though, before I managed to speak she kissed me –impulsively, forgetting the glass in my hand. The last of the plum wine spilled over us. Pursuing the sweet spill between her breasts, I sipped from her navel; and followed the stream into the shadows below the cherry blossom tattoo laced along her hip. Stomach and thighs pulsing, lost in the lunatic squirm, it was all instinct and lack of sight. Wistful, almost iridescent, she stretched and sighed. Clinging to the taste of her, my tongue rode up; glazed lips inching toward breasts. I felt her slide against me, in tentative contact, hard against soft . . . and . . . wet. She told me everything that night; and it was all madness; lust in a language that could never be written.