The last time my eyes laid upon the greens and browns of the dinner table, my hands gripped your rough knuckles underneath the table's wood.
As you partook in the role of swallowing your mashed potatoes, my eyes lingered on your throat, catching the way the tiny hairs moved up and down at the grooves of your neck.
And In the same moment your free hand wiped your mouth, erasing any evidence ravishing spaghetti sauce, making every surface of those pink lips visible, the thought of them on mine cursed through my head. Yet now I know what I am thankful for this thanksgiving.
Only now did you look up to meet my gaze traveling your neck; however, your eyes read the same as mine, cultivating desire. Desire and want screamed from the blue of your eyes. Only now did the decision to have thanksgiving by ourselves make sense. Was it five seconds ago? Ten minutes? An hour since there was a full meal sitting on the table that now held our intertwined bodies.
Was it five seconds? Ten minutes? An hour since I wore a skinny black dress that was now in pieces on the floor.
Was it five seconds? Ten minutes? An hour since I appraised the tie you wore with your suit that was now torn into five parts by my impatient little hands.
It indeed had been to long since your body was one with my own, forgetting the beat of the world but with a rhythm of our own.