Will I ever know this bliss again, the rush of the trees as they rise, the rain threshing away each breath. The slow dissolution, that weight of embrace, this blood owed to wild tides and distant shores. That sense of holding closer than flesh and lost forever at once. That scale of hearts and deeds, that devotion like barest dreams upon a mirror, always in truth the opposite of every seeming. So near to the world there is nothing to let go.
This season is the harvest of smoke, the wandering beneath crystal stars, trailing plumes of steam and wonder. This blood worrying the air as heat becomes a yearning, life a craving of aching bones, a striving to endure for that next question, a knowing of the eternal press of change. The rain stitches up sheer curtains, pummeling car and pavement, beading bright in the headlight stretch. That droplet cold against bare lips, that trembling neither grimace or smile.
You understand how I found this, that deafening drumming, that first sight of the worshiped ape. The retelling of King Kong in wonder not of the towering beast, but of the feast of ritual. That strange pagan yearning towards the power lurking all around, that restlessness of ordinary touch, my fingers and their love for busy wandering. The simple pleasure of unfastened zips and buttons, the trust of flesh finding its way, loosed upon the waiting world. Something so close to a kiss, so near to perfect in its dwindling love.