Art Imitates Life

We're sitting in the bath tub and her hair is up and it's like a Jack Vettriano painting and I ponder that this is my life, for the moment, at least. There's no candles or that stuff, but there's just enough light from the next room that she looks impossibly but actually more gorgeous than usual. The low light, her deep brown eyes, her hair pinned up to keep from getting wet. This is what a woman looks like.

She tilts her head back and I must look at her neck like fucking vampire because I want to devour her and ravish her and tear her apart.

She turns and sits between my legs and lays her head back against my chest. I've stopped trying to control my descent into madness over this girl. It's futile in the most utter and abject sense of the word.

She's telling me about things I just don't even...can't even....remember because this memory is a feast for the rest of my senses and I'm on overload and I take it in as much as I can.