Making Love.

He gazed inside me with motherly tenderness, he embraced me with his breathing heat, a magnet to my pleasure.

He caressed every cell, with nothing but his electricity, the weight of a hundred men hovering above. He seized my flesh and devoured it, satisfied with every bite from his supple steady hands. He searched my body with his starved tongue. He had no plan. He was going somewhere, everywhere it didn’t matter, every taste was his destination.
He blessed my body with his, kissing without the mashing of lips, just air and fire.
Sweat leaked from every pore, mixing with his, until we turned to liquid. I was swimming in ecstasy, no orgasm to be had, only deathless bliss. We melted in our fevered desire.
Silence was our serenade, but then, from somewhere trapped in the deepness, my voice of passion unleashed. My knowledge disappeared. I couldn’t speak, words suffocated as my heart began to scream.
I reached for him, but I couldn’t touch, he wouldn’t let me. He ached for my release, and as he pulsed through me, he broke me. He broke me open from the earth to the air. I craved myself, I grasped and clawed. I yearned to kiss every piece of me, pleasure and pain, all of it at once.
I gasped for breath and drowned in my guilt, my doubt, my unknowingness, my torment. My numbness evaporated as the needles of confusion injected me with consciousness, and I wept.
Naked, exposed, ravaged, nurtured, held, I mourned myself. I mourned the death of my frailty.
I’m not weak, I’m powerful.
He ripped the weakness away and there I was: beautiful, perfect, wise and seen. He sees me without knowing why or asking why. No question of my presence. I am nothing to him, but me.
No sound, no word, no look, no action could turn him away. He protects me, he warms my fragility with his courage. He broke me and he will never allow me to be fixed. I’m irreparable because now, I’m me: quiet, speechless, unable to lead, shattered from the outside, in.
The outside vanished as he looked at me and saw himself. He ate me whole and refused to spit me out.
I’m terrified this is it, and the search is over. We are the intention. We are the harbor and now all that’s left to do, is be. It isn’t sexual, it isn’t emotional, it isn’t mental, it isn’t any of that, it’s peace. It’s foreign. It’s the clouds. I can’t hold it. I can’t describe it. I don’t know it. It’s not worldly or real, it just is.
It’s love.
By Rebecca Lammersen