11:42pm June 10, 2014

Love to someone I may never meet. (Semi-NSFW, maybe?)

Pick me up and carry me. Set me down on the ledge full of sorrel and soil and dew. Run your hands through my hair, and let the scent of your own hair come through to me.

Make sounds, but don’t speak. Make sounds from the innermost part of your being. Sounds that resonate through our bodies, making a place that is ours alone.

I can smell that scent in your sweat that you only smell like when I’m nuzzling your skin. I could smell it forever and I would never get tired of it. It’s familiar, and it tells me who you are.

I can hear the silence that stretches out between us like a dance. It twirls its arms and swirls a shape that we can swim in together. The silence never speaks, but if it did, it would say, silence is love, silence is love.

You are the only person whose eyes I seek to look into. And when I look, I can see infinity, and I can see nothing, and they are the same thing. I also see the wild beauty of the woods that have grown inside us as we sat here on the sorrel beneath the redwood trees.

They grew in the spaces and the silence, before we could notice they were there. They grew quietly. Unobtrusively. They grew there because they are love, too.

Our minds have grown together, intertwined, like vines. It is absolutely and completely sexual, yet you will never find our many and varied varieties of sex in a book on sexology. We grow sex the way the woods grow plants and animals and fungus: In the silent places, in strange shapes that people aren’t sure what to make of. We have sex without bodies. We have sex without private parts. We have sex without touching. We have sex with unusual touching.

Oh, here and there, people will say that this kind of sex is possible. But then they move on, and they don’t give many details. Maybe when instructing quadriplegics in how to have sex, but not when dealing with people who have fuller use of our bodies. The assumption is that if you have genitals, then you would obviously use them.

I love having my genitals touched as much as the next person. But with you, it feels like a short-cut that I don’t want to take. I want to learn all the routes to you that have nothing to do with your private parts. I want to learn how to create a space between us that is only for us, and to enter it with you and interact with you there. I want to lie on top of you, feeling the way that different vocalizations resonate throughout each other’s bodies. I want to touch you in strange places that have nothing to do with genitals, or sometimes, even with bodies at all.

I want to find your erogenous zones located in the redwood sorrel and I want you to find my erogenous zones located in the soil. And I want the sorrel and the soil to make love. Until we can see each other for who we really are, shining brightly, connected at the core, separate at the surface.

I don’t know if I’ll ever meet someone like you, of course. But in a way, it doesn’t matter: My life now is good. My life with you would also be good. I have no sense of desperation, no sense that I need these experiences in order to be happy or whole. Only that these experiences are possible, and are a thing of beauty when they do become possible. So I will leave room in my life for these things to happen, without dwelling on whether or not they will happen. And whatever happens, will happen.

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