The way she looks up at him as they walk along. How he basks in her attention. Their secret tongue. The manner of their touching. The lustre of a private vision in their eyes. All the beautiful details of their moving together. This is what I want to share with you.
It’s the fall of your hair. The lustrous cascade of it. The gorgeous wave it has. Those golden highlights. More than just beautiful; borderline majestic. For when you free it from its workaday constraint and it flows like a sparkling river of light, I too am simply swept along. As though I were a strand, dancing to the cool cadence of your stride, or a melody line in the beguiling and ever mysterious hymn you sing to the higher ideal. That such a simple thing should somehow offer hints of the unfathomable often leaves me speechless – with nothing left to understand; only that I love you.
When we obliterate the triviality of detail, when we pass through the frontier of control, all we have is the golden light. The pure, unbounded enfolding. The embrace that is not withheld for the want of names or the quibble of character. It is the sea we never leave; in which we are all drowning. Fragile swimmers.
In this extraordinary vastness we are swooning. Inside this immensity we shall neither be lost nor found, woman nor man. Just motes in the eye of the shining. Which shall not blink for judgement – only see. And we … we shall simply be.
The world may well decree, logic might dictate, reason will surely give pause – but what do we care about that right now? This could be little more than a moment, a flickering light in a sea of grey. We know this – but today, tonight, it is our light. Not because we own it or we’re entitled to it; simply because we made it. Because we decided. And will decide again and again until one or both of us chooses something else. We can call it love if we want, or simply desire. Or mutual hunger. Or recognition. These are words – and our light is neither bound by them nor by history or expectation. It shines when we shine it. For now at least, we are blessed by this glorious deciding; and even if only in the faulty museum of memory, we can always have this. If we want.
For though it once bled dry, now again it is the spring. If in the desert it once drained, now the sea it fills again. Though darkness fell and night was black, now once more the dawn has come. And in the light, the beating strong; the thirsty, parching doubt now gone.
It is not simply that I love you but that, in you, I am the act of love. Your eyes turn me into light, your voice into song. When you move I am the dance – and when you leave I am the distance between stars. But your touch … now I am the very stuff of being; the act of becoming. In your presence, the unmanifest infinity collapses to a moment. A breath. A beat. A kiss.
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