And so again, bodies once more entwined in tangled sheets as the hands of the clock spin and spiral inward, into blackness, raindrops sliding down the windowpanes in liquid counterpoint to the liquid struggle on the bed. A struggle towards -- what? To break through into the great blind and bursting nova, that golden moment when sun and stars explode through your body, your silver cord tautening and drawing out, drawing tight, tightening the knot you've formed with your partner, that knot that may stretch and tangle but never, ever breaks? To meld flesh with flesh, breath with breath, liquid centers merging, tightening, pounding hearts in rhythm, each heartbeat incomplete without the other?
In an entire lifetime of loves, how many times can it be like that, all soft and enfolding, salt-sweat and tang of tears, cradled close in all-encompassing darkness, all whispers and sighs and endearments, the connection so intense that it sears with the intensity of a nuclear strike. Summer lightning, brilliant and blue-white, transient and gone; its crackle and flash is nothing beside the intensity of this moment, this gaze, this creature with two backs and eight limbs, one pulse, one thought, one love.
It builds and it builds, that pleasure, waves crashing, thunder rolling, sonorous bass vibrating bones, tingling heat washing through nerves from end to end. Softly moaned endearments mingle with the cries of ecstasy, fingers clasping and unclasping, backs arching, bodies filled with wind and flame, a conflagration that builds rather than destroys. With every stroke they tighten their grasp; with every movement the music of their symphony builds to new heights; with every word the inadequacy of words is made more apparent. What they have is beyond boundaries, too great to be noted, too ephemeral for the cosmos to care, but as intense and unchanging and eternal as change itself.
Drifting and drowsing, slumbrous and spent, they lie in their blissful golden afterglow, the chaos of their world spiraling into a whirlpool, dwindling and gone. The world spins beneath them unfelt, unnoticed. Here there is only quiet, and warmth, and closeness, and a short exchange that has never meant more than it does now.
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
(Microfantasy Monday is the brainchild of Ang, the Sweltering Celt. This week's theme was "Spiritual Connection". Go see Ang to find out who else is playing.)