Scavenger

It's a crime to think of her this vividly. He shouldn't be able to - after all, it has been eight years since they last saw each other. Yet, she plagues him in his dreams and tortures him there.

He remembers how she loves red wine and how it stains her lips and puts a flush on her cheeks. He remembers how she tastes like - like warm milk and slow honey; tastes like innocence and peace and redemption; tastes like sunshine and rain and home and safe. She tastes like fulfilled and kept promises, contentment and bliss.

He remembers her voice - breathy and smoky, dark and clear. She can rasp his name out and he knows that's exactly how he wants his name to be said.

He remembers her mouth and how it spews forth magnanimous filth that would make even a seasoned whore blush. That same mouth produces words that can make your heart break; that same mouth can fucking suck your soul out from your dick.

He remembers her eyes and still wonders how she can make him do whatever she wants him to just by looking at him. He's seen those eyes half lidded, dark and pupils blown with lust. He's seen them crease with mischievous glints. He's seen it red rimmed, filled with tears and puffy. He's seen those eyes dull away to gray in her melancholy.

He remembers her body - imperfect and yet, hypnotic. He loves how her hip bone juts out in a sharp angle. He has found himself biting, touching and kissing the skin that surrounds it, on more than one occasion. He remembers her scent - musky, sweet, dark, exotic, primal and surreal.

He remembers everything and remembers them with such clarity that it's as if he's looking at a photograph or he's watching a video.

It's unfair. All this memory makes him want her. He hungers for it: a taste of her smile, a sip of her laughter. He admits that he will gladly humble himself for stale crumbs of his previous delight.

This is what he is reduced to: a scavenger, a beggar for love.