697. untranslatable

Em stood before the window, looking upon the trees in morning light, branches swaying in a light breeze. From inside the cabin the brook could not be heard, although she would say later, that she did.

She didn't hear him come across the room nor feel his breath on the nape of her neck, his humid kisses keeping time with the rhythm of his chest, gentle kisses of exhale, warm as the tongue she wanted to taste, to hold, to feel brush against her ear. His sweater pressed against hers. There was that softness between them. And there was the silence of thought not spoken, of eyes not opened. She leaned her head back and pressed against him. He was strong, lean, hard and he smelled of milled soap, unscented, clean as the breeze off the mountain. The longer they spent together the more they spoke in touch and look and the less in word. And there was a mutual understanding that all the words in all the books could not say what the kisses, the embraces, the melding of flesh between them, that soft warmth of body and yet a warmth too in the touch but beyond the touch could, did. He was her fingerprint, uniquely what he was to her, and what they shared, they shared alone, a language of two, untranslatable.