intimate

It is this kiss that first leads us on the path of the unfamiliar, drawn by that tender promise, driven by all that ruthless blood. This press of passioned flesh, the mingling of skin and breath, this thriving wildness driven to find that spark. It whispers deepest secrets, promises all manner of matter and dream. The thrill imbues you with that rush of direction, drives you towards the stranger you will become. It is the one kind of losing longed for, the self you lose to love.

Passion speaks so clearly, adrift in slick intentions, the lost caution a cleared throat before the voice resonates through these skin. These thick condensations that clutch the heart and leave the tongue to labor against tooth and lip. The air all around swells as the breath speeds and the spirit envelops the act, you at last knowing the home of all your love and greed. The entanglement somehow freeing the senses of their tasks, this ladening of your will with the want for another, the magic only these moments know. Out loud you seem a stranger, yes the only answer you need.

We walk in separate selves, our ghosts always hidden from our daily face, always some restless other brushing against our thoughts. The way another shifts inside the clinging of clothes and glances, the tide of this arcane blood haunting our every step. A glimpse of skin, an electric reckoning of another's gaze, the pretense of language banished in the animal measure of press and bend. We lean in, at once stranger and accomplice, at once partnered and all on our own. We lean in, only our depths able to fathom how far this want will wander. Never knowing how long the wonder will last, we lean in to that kiss.