It caught me completely off-guard.
I drew a long, sweet breath and pulled myself down into pada-hastasana. As I settled my chest against my thighs, as I have done so many hundreds of times before, I looked at my feet on the mat beneath me and was suddenly electric with the memory of your mouth around my toes. The room around me disappeared; the rivulets of sweat slinking along my spine and legs suddenly traced my topography with the exquisite tickle of your remembered fingers, and I nearly toppled to the floor.
Your voice is always a surprise.
So much time passes between my hearing of it; somehow, I can never recall the exact measures of its details -- how many parts bassline resonance, whisper, arch-eyebrowed tenor, silence, growl. Though your writing carries the cadence, there's a singular pleasure in the first few words you speak when we see each other, as it is only then that I can match the familiar beats of your language to the rest of the remembered instruments.
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me,
all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
― Pablo Neruda