December 11, 2010


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.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Leave your mark.