You taste sweet to my imagination. Devouring every bite you reluctantly spoon feed me, digesting self-created pictures of you; admiring me. Sunlight pours in through basement windows, beaming on my bare shoulders. My eyes dance. You smile.
This bliss, although purely harvested by my own mind, resinates, solidly, again and again, as if it were a memory. I wish there were more, but this is all I have. An artificial memory.
A perfect one though.
sigh. i've felt this way when i wanted something i shouldn't have. when i got it it wasn't as good as the imagination but it was ok.
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