Memory of Love

Once, I was grounded into the mundane world of survival. My umbilical cord was still attached, and I was yet to be born. The act of love. Sexual congress. It is a supreme giving and a taking of biblical proportions, all in the same instant.

Sex is the most profound physical sensation in existence.

When sex transcends the boundaries; when it becomes more than a push and a grunt, it can become the purest essence of magic. It is possible to create the divine spark of life though this connection. Achieving godhood has always been the dream of mankind. Religion abhors the transcendence, afraid for its sacrificed god, and plunges the most beautiful of acts into something worthy of everlasting torment.

It begins with a touch of mind and soul. Across a crowded space, or within a second of silence, two people meet through their gaze. They sway, moving in rhythmic cycles until the first word. The first word moves on into open dialogue, and on again into more.

Later, they find another rhythm, circling toward the inevitable moment when a naked hand touches a nude body. For me, you see, this is always the moment of truth, the touching of more than a breast or a phallus; this is the first touch of the soul to the soul, the first words spoken directly by the mind.

With the shedding of clothing, the defensive covering of the soul is also dropped to the ground, allowing access to the most intimate of thoughts.

I see myself through your eyes. See who, and what, I appear to be to you. Do you see yourself?

I see a woman whose flesh is imbued with a woman’s strength, forever mysterious and loving. I see a golden-haired woman with skin of the palest roses just coming into blossom. Your breasts rise and fall as I watch you, the rounded flesh a dichotomy in soft firmness. Your stomach is rounded gently, keeping within it the housing for the spark of divinity we could create. Without you, I will never be immortal, I will never attempt godhood.

Without you, I am only half of my Self.

With you, I am more than even you understand. You know me entirely now, your thoughts merged with mine, our energies feeding lovingly off of each other, spawning more in the ever moving cycle. I touch the tender skin of your sex with my fingers, kissing it with my soul as I gaze into the endless summer blue of your eyes.

I feel your innocent desire, your wish to make me happy, to hold me in your arms until I am calm again.

Your flesh is permeable, giving way to the loving soul in which I seek to harbor. I am aroused by your arousal. I am enraptured by your curiosity. The cool, gentle fingers of your hand wrap around me to cradle the flesh that reaches for you.

Electric honey-scent shocks me with enticement as you caress my mouth with soft lips, meshing our souls until only a transparent wall of Self separates them.

The bed waits, a caress in itself, a haven for the merging of soul with soul, of body with body.

I love you/myself. The words are interchangeable in the passion of omniscience. I am/you are the entirety of the world.

Cool sheets stroke our skin in delicate waves as we flow with each other to the cushioned cradle. The breeze of an open window plays with the curl of your hair as you lie back onto the pillows. I exult in my masculinity, in your woman’s body, so pliant beneath my hands. I find nothing but pleasure in the silken skin of your thigh. I want so much, need so much, and I wish to give that want, that need, to you, so that you may add yours to the measure and transcend the boundaries with me.

I am love—and lust—in an eternal flame of creation.

You are both master and slave in the dance. I am both controlled and controlling, and neither.

Kiss me, my love, for I need the wine within your soul to become drunken, staggering in the throes of passion. Kiss me and follow the path of your hand as it crawls from my shoulder to the hardened physical notion of my love. Please, touch me, and I will touch you, beg you to release me from bondage to the slavish devotion I give to my hungers.

Yes, turn around my love, turn so that I may reach you with my mouth. Turn so that I may bury my cries into the soft, moist center of life. I place my mouth upon you as you devour me, the feel of your lips slippery velvet as you taste me with the small cat laps of your tongue. Stop for a second while you have me in your mouth. Feel my heartbeat throbbing, feel the hunger upon which you feed, as I am slowly using my mouth as a conduit for the lust you inspire.

Ah, you tremble, my darling, and your soul is filled with the color of passion: roses upon roses of purple and red. You tighten the muscles of your thighs about my head, moving your hips with an abandon no one could have guessed from the pale innocence of your dress that now lies discarded upon the floor. But, your thoughts are mine, and they would be shocking to one who misunderstood the complexity of your soul.

I am in agreement with your hunger, with your craving to be filled by me, filled with flesh and filled with the more spiritual food of the soul’s release. I echo your longing. Can you see my thoughts?

We circle, I above you now, moving with the pressure of your lips, with each gentle nudge of your small, sharp teeth. You rise against me, the scent of your pleasure enticing, exciting, creating moans of delight that come, unbidden, with each breath I take. The slippery inner texture of your most private lusts inspire explorations, your thoughts urging me on.

The formless pictures of lust, of who I appear to be to you, push me closer.

Flowing with movement, we part and change, your thighs wrapping around my waist as I enter into the soft, cradling warmth of your sex. Electric energy sparks your soul, pulsating in time to the throb of my heart. I feel you—the inner walls parting to receive a familiar guest.

The writhing of your body echoes the twisting of my soul, turns every belief and religion into dust as I find salvation in your arms.

You have healed me, healed the sundering as if it had never occurred, and I am in awe of your power. I am humbled by your grace, by the simple ecstasy of your surrender. I, too, surrender. I relinquish my soul into the ether, to merge and form with yours, so that you may quench that which is corrupt and unworthy.

I seek the nobility and the innocence that once were mine, so that we may, again, know joy, may, again, be free.

I wake to find the bed empty of form and love. Vision’s shadows crawl over timeworn memories, and I am lost again, lost in the world that I have made. Like the bed, it is empty, the cruelties committed in the name of love and hate having emptied it years ago. Lost, you were/are, in the sensations of time, in the grand triumph of hate over love, and I was damned, blinded, struck down.

You are somewhere, my angel. Somewhere in time and place you exist, although the physical remains are dead and buried. I am somewhere else.

Souls that once touched, reach for each other over echoing circles of eternity.

If I close my eyes in the darkling light of a shrouded bed, I can still find the sense of you. My soul knows, again, the ecstasy of burgeoning passion, of innocent desire, with which you once gifted me.