I will never be able to get past that rushing sensation in my head, my heart, my soul. That rush of ecstasy that lingers against my lips after a kiss; getting wine-drunk off of the vintage staining his lips. I wonder to myself as our lips meet again for another taste, if this is what the mortal races sing about in their songs.
The passion of love, they would say. The searing hot of their touch warming you even through the fabric of your tunic doing something as innocuous as a pat on the shoulder. But it is that simple touch that sends your senses into disarray; your logic is forgotten and reason turns to drunken madness, though it is not folly to those lost in the daze.
I can never stay long enough. I always have to go before the moon rises too high into the summer night. People would talk, otherwise. Everybody talks. The moonlight only mocks me when I leave for home; it makes me think of the silver of his hair; silver the wealthiest of Kings would be envious of. The moon mocks me with its journey into the sky. It tells me that we are only almost. I will take almost in a world marred by what-ifs and uncertainties. "Almost", to me, shall be a promise. That we will stay one day to see the sun rise, and it will warm our drunken bodies, and we will be wearing bands of silver and gold. Almost.
