It's not a word.
But a feeling. It happens everytime we touch...everytime we kiss.
Not just then either.
It happens when you speak or when you are silent.
It's in your eyes, on your skin, the smell of you, the taste of you.
You are bliss.
I looked up the definition and it pales beside you.
One mere word cannot describe what you are.
Bliss...means great happiness.
Bliss...means ecstasy of salvation.
You have been my happy, my sad, my anger, my joy, my pain, my agony, my angel, my devil, my love, my hate.
It is too small a word for you Helen. I combine it with rapture and desire, mix in longing and anxiety. The contents of our love.
The appetite that burns in me everyday and every night for you.
For you and your bliss.
It travels the length of you and I follow it's path. From your smooth brow to the depths of brown that seek me out, to the lips that tempt me, to the tanned column neck and to the parts of you I have dreamed of.
Bliss is a tear from your eye, Bliss is the drop of rain that catches on you.
I follow it along your body, aching to be in it's place.
To trail along your skin, to know those hidden places.
To slide down your chest, to pause at your navel.
To caress the contours of hips and thighs.
I carry this with me, all day and into the night.
Bliss is your body.
Bliss is your soul.
And I imagine you are touching me, where I touch myself.
My finger is your tongue. Your tongue is my bliss.
Bliss is wanting you, needing you.
Bliss is the first contact, the first touch, the spark.
I burn in this fire, Nikki. The flames lap at me and it is you that chars my virgin skin.
Virgin because it has not be touched. Not by you.
And your touch is bliss.
Bliss is losing myself to you, piece by piece.
And being lost.