On the first jagged breath of pain, my worries cling to me. By the tenth, I feel them dissolving and escaping into the air around us. By the twentieth, I am his again, emptied yet filled, diffused yet centered.
We are connected by invisible strings that move and flow and stretch any distance. His hand is not a hand, but a loom to craft our delicate web; the paddle is not a paddle, but a quill to separate each silken line until there are thousands of paths between us.
He breathes out; I breathe him in. I breathe out; he breathes me in. We work in synchronicity. Our chests rise and fall in the pattern of waves, a woven testament to the undulating give-and-take between us.
He delivers and I rise up to meet him, matching his strength with the strength of my will. Soon there is no telling where his ends and mine begins.
We are connected by invisible strings that move and flow and stretch any distance. His hand is not a hand, but a loom to craft our delicate web; the paddle is not a paddle, but a quill to separate each silken line until there are thousands of paths between us.
He breathes out; I breathe him in. I breathe out; he breathes me in. We work in synchronicity. Our chests rise and fall in the pattern of waves, a woven testament to the undulating give-and-take between us.
He delivers and I rise up to meet him, matching his strength with the strength of my will. Soon there is no telling where his ends and mine begins.
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