There is some nameless valve that will not shut out the knowing of you. In the matrix of my thoughts, some muscle the anatomists missed, forever bruised to tenderness. Affection’s velvet petals curl tight around a wounded corona of inevitable loss. Love exists in the shadow of that awful, ephemeral truth: you and I and time are finite.
It makes of my heart a clenched fist. I cannot let you go. This raging hunger clamours at the flesh. Sometimes, it seems there is no difference between my desire to fuck you to sleep or to bring about some hellish cataclysm. To make you laugh or smile or hurt or lust, it matters not which. They are all flavours of the same, urgent kiss. Bruised or in ecstatic pleasure, tears of laughter or rage, it is the tender somatic response we seek in the other. The fleeting confirmation that we are, for now, sentient and not alone.
We are bound for nothingness, but before then, we must burn bright and burn together.
For the rarified state they seem to be titling for, the physicality of this was overpoweringly fleshy! Love it
Beautiful and poetic, hon!
Well done!