I can’t forget the way you cupped my face in the dark and I did the same to know the sensation. Even in that dark, a barely noticeable tinge of moonlight reached through the curtains to vaguely illuminate your face. I could make out your silhouette and it looked almost like the shape of a teardrop, of a pilot flame.
I think about how the grooves in our fingerprints are already reading each other through touch, memorizing skin as if it is Braille. It makes sense because we’ve always seemed to read one another in the dark without signs, without anything to guide us but breath, heat, skin, and voices. You taught me to read a body without light.
And to cup your face, so gently cradle it to still all movement as our eyes locked, it’s almost terrifying at first. I’ve obviously looked into your eyes so many times before this. It’s different here.
Still nestled so deeply inside, your thighs bowed around me like a lock, still pulsing within you, breathing the scent of our bodies. Holding your face this way feels like the most intimate thing happening.
It’s not the afterglow yet, that beautiful tear in time where everything is still and we eventually drift off. This is the moment where our bodies are spent with release and we haven’t caught up to them yet. I can barely see your eyes but know that they’re locked with mine. I can still feel what resembles distant thunder, hearts drumming in unison, still climbing down.
There’s been an exchange here, something immeasurable. Things I still can’t find the words for but that’s fine because I know this isn’t a moment to speak, it’s to absorb. And I know why I’m holding your face this way, so softly yet unable to let go.
I don’t know if I believe in fate. I don’t know how much I believe in soulmates or even the soul but have always hoped that beneath all this tissue and bone and human frailty that there is a beautiful energy somewhere, some light that we can’t quantify, that it’s not all noise and temporary matter.
And I don’t believe in miracles.
But I believe in you.
