Passion is more than sex, more than love. Passion is fusion. If it lasts beyond thefirst encounter, or even the thirtieth, that’s something worth holding dear.
Years have passed. They’ll do that, you know. One minute it’s right now, and then the next thing you know, that was ages ago.
Aah, but I remember you. The flavor’s changed some. I roll memories of you over in my mind. They’ve become less coppery and sharp, mellowed to a buttery softness.
Age has a way of doing that to a person’s life. Years, age, life-we are heavy with them, you and I.
Aah, but I remember us. We were something, weren’t we? Oblivious to the world, brazenly hand-in-hand, and glorious. Our lives spread before us like a long stretch of headlights bending into the early morning horizon.
And when we crashed together, sparks would fly. We would fly! Swept away on the wings of our passion, beating with all our might towards the sky. Your hands upon me were as if designed expressly for the purpose of fitting to my form.
Ours was not simply a connection: we were fusion.
I know, I know-it wasn’t like that every time. But it always felt like home to me. It was exactly where I was supposed to be- the place toward which my life, before you, had been laboring, my reward for battles well fought.
You pleasured me as no other could have. When you were inside me, my every pore connected with yours, and the current was complete, coursing through our bodies, from yours to mine and back around again. We singed the very air round us. I always thought I could smell it when I lay back after, exhausted and drenched in sweat, amazed at just how heavy my body felt when empty.
I was equally amazed how quickly my body would begin to fill again. Perhaps after a nap, or just a few minutes, or days, electricity would course through my limbs, solidify in my torso, bounce against the underside of my skin, seek a way out and through.
All it would take was a brush against you, to release it and send it hurling, where it would clash with your current and magnetize the air between us.
I suppose that’s how we’ve come this far together, without even noticing the time.
Our lives-no, our life-was a series of releases and recharging.
Ah, but I remember us. How could I forget?
And so, my dear man, I know you have not forgotten. I know that it’s all in there, tucked away for safekeeping. I know you draw upon it, little tastes as needed for strength. Don’t fight for me, sweet man. There’s nowhere you can go that I’ll not be with you. And you with me.
So this is not goodbye. And though I’ll keep you in my soul-I’ll only hold your hand until you’ve released your grip on mine.