I love her.

Her skin is brown.
It does not taste like chocolate
But like what a mix of sunlight and moonbeams would be if sprinkled with streetlights from our walk home.
More like umami. Too savory to be sweet. But there is salt and honey there if I suck long enough.
(Sour in the right way. Intoxicating bitters.)

Her body is my favorite thing. She is soft.
Her hair. Her skin. She feels like fingers on my neck before the nails scratch my scalp that is always itching.

Her love is the only thing that love could be. Necessary.
Life in a look, in a graze. She loves me as if I am the only thing that is necessary. She loves my me because it is necessary.

Her heat is like steam. Or lava. Or sunshine. Or tea steeping in anticipation of my lips.
Tongue burned every time, leaving a memory of that taste for the rest of the day. Maybe even tomorrow.
Maybe making it worse if I taste again later. Worth the numb and tingle.

She is the dream I forget when I wake.
An impression I cannot clasp on to because she is not there when I open my eyes.