She is an abstraction in my hands. I move them in every direction on her body being careful to memorize every curve, remember every place where smooth becomes smoother. My breath stops and starts, going from deep in my lungs to holding frozen somewhere at the edge of my mouth. For a moment we share everything. We move to the same passionate cadence, driven onward and hard by the pressing of bodies and the collisions of tongues. I want to look at her but I cannot help but squeeze my eyes closed in the sheer joy of it. My hands, still feeling their way around absently but with some faint notion of purpose, come to rest on her hands, or maybe this time her lap, or perhaps cradling her face. I might as easily block out the sun as I press her lips into mine. I might let fingers dance on the top edge of her pants flirting with the occasional button or double clasp hook. My fingers might skirt the outer edges of lacey under-things going just past the boundary, interlocking with the soft pink of her nipples. These hands, both graceless and poetic, reach into and search out the most vulnerable or sensitive of places somehow trying to show her through contact that the love that trembles within me is worthy. They may be slight movements, these missives of the physical sent directly to her heart, but they are more than the feeble communications of some ham-handed fool. They are the barest, most pure offerings I can conjure up in her name. As I touch her I can feel her moving against me, against the current of my passion. She begs me to stop and yet to never stop. She begs me for more even though she seems beyond her vast limits. Her breath is heavy in my ears as she moans the unintelligible language of a woman on the edge. She presses and pulls, to and from, near and away, until we achieve some sort of in-sync but chaotic lover’s ballet. And then, when her voice flattens and her body quivers that last convulsion of bliss, she falls silent and collapses into me. I smell the sweet scent of her body, feel her heat bake me to my core, and again my hands find themselves holding an abstraction that to the world might look like the most beautiful girl in the world but to me is just the girl I so love and adore.