I know you not as a child, but as everything; there are no words, only all. I want what you want, I know what you know, I feel what you feel.

The eyes-closed concentration of the place; only skin against skin, only breathing and heartbeat. There is so much communication of hands; so much a single stretch of skin can say-so much that is wordless about touch. It is as a prayer, my hand, two fingers, slanting against your forehead, as your eyes look up and reflect, blue-brown, galaxies, bright mirrors and tiny dots whirling and hung suspended. It is as if I see through those pools, as if the tiny plane is a world and I am hung, tiny, in between the star-dots, with the emptiness of space past me.

Space, deep and vast, like death, or like knowledge. It is wordless too, seeking to understand. I feel as if I am there; I feel. Strange to feel, strange to reflect.

Deep like the pause before life and death. Those are ages and eternities you cannot possibly know, for we each know our own…finger over thumb, thumb over finger over finger. You are a child, and yet you are not. You are your past, and my own past, and we both are future, hanging in between the blackness, the deep void of it, facing naked the bitter, beautiful emptiness of the stars.

The strength of arms. The speaking without speaking. Skin. Contact. Heartbeat, breathing. I do not remember my childhood, and this is like an ocean…surrounded.

It was like darkness, on that distant planet; it swallowed me whole. There was nothing comforting about the plants, the green wavering fronds above me; only confusion; sun-dazed, I had never seen them before. Then, stumbling out of darkness: as if the sun appeared, your face, closer and closer, and I remembered something vague, in dark shapes, beyond touch and sense but perhaps stronger. The bond between parent and child, between lover and loved, between life and life.

You do not understand why I cry; perhaps you are asleep, or merely breathing as I breathe. It is not the humanity that is crying; it is that part that was torn from me; my old self. I reach towards it but cannot touch. I see his face but his hand does not meet mine. We are the same, the lines and features the same, but I have died and voyaged anew, and he is drifting somewhere among the stars.

As a child, and as not; wordless, our hands together; I know, through a distant rushed tunnel of knowing, understanding, feeling, being-child against human skin; the simplicity and beauty of it, the connection I cannot escape in his eyes. Future, you said, but I do not know; my dreams are deep and strange and stretch for aeons.

For now, I only feel the presence of you, yourself, your body and mind, together and dormant at once, in sleep a strange sort of human miracle, though you are not human. The rise and fall of your breathing. And I note that I am not dreaming…strange, dreams…but feel continuously my arms around you, the solid reality. It carries me back to a time I can only feel; one I am parted from, one I thought I had lost-hand against hand, these two times, impossible to touch…Every seven years, I heard it once said. Perhaps it came from before. In a far distant closeness, a single heartbeat is all I am, against the vast sea of dark.