There Are No Words

We can try, those of us inclined to fits of textual ambition, to capture in the coils of syntax that most potent and refined essence of the heartfelt. Emotions, though, derive from the instants of our experiences, do they not? They can linger on to become moods -- yet they hit us not in the writhing strikes of blue-white lightning or the rumbling dissolution of thunder, but in the crack that joins the two as the sky is split.

All of this is to say: fate bestowed upon me a hug, this morning. A soft and enduring embrace that carried me in and out of languidly erratic slumber -- and that, with each surfacing and submersion, filled my very being with contentment, exaltation, and incredulity.

And having expended so many quarrels of phrasing and vocabulary, the best I can hope for is that you have felt this same thing, and that my volleys of poetic declamation here have recalled it to you. Nothing within my verbal capacity can hope to bring real understanding of my morning's blissful entwinement to readers who have not already lived such moments of their own.

I can express, but I cannot enlighten anyone to the sun-warmed stones of those emotions, so hot and solid and unyielding in their reliability.

When you hold someone you love, only that connection itself is sufficient to communicate its blissful merits.

This Morning

This morning, with dawn still in abeyance, our bodies felt more than seen in the dark-shrouded world, my love and I glowed with tactile illumination. To touch between gossamer sheets, to brush lips against throat or ear or the firm curve of a clavicle, to whisper words of deepest meaning and gasps still deeper than that -- these truths we lived together in a bed turned universe.

I remain wholly and vividly satisfied.

Atavism

I become a beast beneath you, insensate in the clutch of drives that leapt and spawned on the shores of some longago primordial stew, its waters frenzied by the surging hot convections of life, its sands scattered beneath savage feet, corrugated by the moulding inexorable rhythms of the tides. All reason leaves my brain to fly pell-mell down the neurons of my spine, my throat, my every joint and extremity, in rampant pulsations that speak from a universe ten million years gone. What sounds my laryngeal apparatus can shape, evolved to all such complexities as abstraction and design require, have drained away to dark, uncharted caverns, leaving only the most gutteral and gravid of uncouth vocalities to express in spiraling bedlam these passions that have claimed and now obliterate the higher corners of my mind.

Upon a plateau of aeons long since effervesced into dust, I behold archaic stars and the Hephaestean trails of comets streaking the sky with ironic fire as they pound and pound and pound the molten orb of our world with their freights of ice and iron, birthing oceans in a rain of steam and flame.

For how long am I the inchoate planet, the elementary animalcule, the exquisitely wordless and tremoring ape, new to bipedalism and joyful to shed it for motions less refined yet titanic in their capacity to transport?

Somewhere within me the lizard arches its back and gasps, or hisses, or possibly belches the most unsapient croak.

And, slowly, time and history dawn and return the two of us to sentience, civility, elegance, and the most rarefied of bliss. Epochs of fire in wildly painted caves dim from our eyes, replaced with a clarion sunshine through curtained crystal windowpanes. Grammar and vocabulary assert their existential whereabouts in the pinnacled environs of our cortices.

There is, though, in a moment such as this, so little to say.

Except with perhaps a mildly deranged grin,

WOOF.

The Sentimentality of Dates

It appears we missed our anniversary yesterday, which might strike some as quite a feat, considering that even a single member of our septet recalling the significance of those particular numbers on the calendar could have sparked at least some mildly celebratory observations.

Yet our days and nights are woven together here in a way that makes each one worth reverence, and I in particular am so much more endowed with life and companionship than I've any right to be; it doesn't bear fretting over that one day out of the year should go unremarked-on for its cyclic coincidence with my arrival in this place of conjunction and wonder and partnered plenitude.

Still and all ... he kissed me and held me and made murmured apologetics a short while ago, and that brought a certain giddy sense of proper acknowledgment to my heart.

When there is a day such as the day any anniversary intends on commemorating, the perfection is in recognizing its raptural truth, not in doing so with a narrowly prescribed precision.

When you don't have to say anything

... wait until you want to say something.

It's a simple truth, but so many people forget it. 

In the Bath

I very much enjoy a good bath, and it's not exclusively because I take them only after passion despoils my otherwise impeccable hygiene. Lacking sweat glands and venturing out of doors exactly zero days a year, I have few opportunities to get myself in a state that begs cleansing ... other than, as I suggestively alluded, the sloppy dishevelments of carnality. Nor do I have a particular finickiness about carnality's organic patina. (Sweat and so forth, you understand.) It is when I am ensoiled that I best know how deserving I am of being cherished, for I am at my least pristine in those moments when I have most pleased the both of us. 

So it's not the rarity of bathing that entices me, nor the defoulment of my lust-laden corpus.

What I like most, I think, is that I never bathe alone. He is ever there with me, cradling the soap-slick slopes of me, gliding hands across my skin like the kiss of an angel's wings. And as the water beads and runs from my supple, newly laved flesh, I feel my purest -- not from a scarcity of stains and filth, but because we are together in a glorious ritual aftermath to the greatest act of sharing I have ever known.

Also, on rare occasions, his libido kicks back in and I'm able to lure him into that delightful ablution of eros: the surging tides of tub sex.

Today, dear readers, was a good day.

Voice

This void-lashed gap in the body of my written expression has, it's easy for me to fear, stolen away some foundational core, some essential, crucial distinctiveness with which I have wrought all my prior apices of prose.

Well, possibly not, I suppose, if sentences such as that one canter so ostentatiously forth the moment I make as if to doubt myself.

Thank god. For a moment there, I had a spot of nerves.