Summary: It is graceful, it is erotic, it is abstract. It is a complicated dance – one that cannot be learned in one night, and one that can never be perfected.
Word Count: 479
She looks at him, and she can see it in his eyes, what he is thinking as he moves against her.
"I'm pouring everything of myself into this... I am giving all of myself to you... I am not going to end this until I have given you everything..."
She closes her eyes and silently whispers, "Pull me under, take me with you... If you are drowning, I want to drown, too..."
His lips are soft, but the pressure of them is consuming. His passion ensures that every kiss is a ferocious "thank you." The fire of his suppressed longings boils to the surface like liquid love, still pleading, still asking for what he was being given every second they spent together. He still needed this reassurance, this confirming touch, this sighing voice that told him, "Yes, everything you see and feel and hear is yours...all yours..."
And when she finally returns his kiss, he knows her answer. "I am yours."
From this point on, it is a race. They are running together, hand in hand, rushing through autumn leaves and silver monsoons and deep, black nights without a moon. This is the point where the world tilts in the wrong direction, away from the sun, and they dip their toes into darkness. If they have no hearts, then something else is pounding. Something has offered them a shared pulse, something is warring with reality...and that something is winning the war.
Here, it is as if they have never known another being, as if they have only ever known the soul before them. Their limbs slip together in a frustrating tangle, losing their rights to be individual, independent, solitary.
Under these sheets, solitude is a sin.
It is graceful. It is erotic. It is abstract. It is a complicated dance – one that cannot be learned in one night, and one that can never be perfected. They believe it is worth the struggle to try and perfect it anyway. They never could accept the notion of impossibility.
The heat of a thousand suns is rich upon their flesh as they meet with every tender pass. There is always a pleasant ending to this familiar story. They have reenacted it countless times, yet the ending is always reached in a different way.
It is hunger verses fullness, the giving and receiving of gifts, the feeling of being lost in a foreign island, words like "rejoice" and "understand" and "desperation" and "tranquility", the acceptance of chaos, and the utter rejection of self-reliance.
The irrational guilt that comes from pulling a fistful of grass out of the earth for no reason at all...
Writing one's deepest secrets in blood on the wall of a public institution, and savoring the shame...
Scavenging for the last drop of wine, though the goblet is clearly empty...
It is, pure and simple, an arabesque.