The other day I saw a beautiful white Lily and I thought of you. It was not really white but had the creamy color of raw milk to it, as if a single drop of yellow had been gently blended into a vast pool of white so that it had just the perfect soft creamy color to it. It was lovely, and it made me think of you. I stood mute, remembering the two pictures I have of you and of how they possess me.
I reached out and gently touched one of the petals. The surface was smooth, and so much stronger that I had thought it would be, but I could still tell that it should be handled with care.
It may sound odd to say but it took all the strength that I had, not to pick it up and to taste it, to feel the tip of my tongue gently touching and it, and I thought of you again. I thought of your skin and your beautiful dark eyes and your soft hair.
I imagined how it would feel and smell to burrow my face into your hair and the nape of your neck and to draw your fragrance into my breath and into my very being. I looked at the lily again and for the first time notice deep within the pedals, a stamen coming up from the center of the flowers delicate folds. These were delicate little creations, with gold stems and strong dark black tops, rimmed with delicious golden flakes, and for the first time I realized that the lily itself was pure white and that the other colors were a reflections of the stems casting their colors on the rest of the flower.
I was so reminded of you that again I wanted to taste the flower, not only with the tip of my tongue but to hold it flat against my tongue to cover it completely to taste every part of it with every part of my tongue. I wanted to feel the stamen to see if it was soft or firm and to play with it, to lick deeper and discover every fold and recess with my mouth. I needed to experience it with the strength and the taste and the moisture of my tongue and my mouth.
But then I though again of the flower and of how easily my selfishness could damage it and so I left it there untouched and undamaged. But now I myself have been left wanting and the lily, abandoned, is no better than before and I have decided that in the future when next I come upon a tender lily, I will consume it and make it a part of me.