Pinnacle

Ah, when you can be held in, immersed in, absorbed in, absolved by love.

The hands that touch you, the supple skin pressed against yours, the breeze of beloved sighs across your flesh, the infinite purity of lips finding those most sensitive hollows along your throat, behind your breast -- at the taut juncture where lower belly adjoins with trembling upper thigh.

And, too, the murmuring assurances of carnal wonderment, heart-bound and wholesome and hungering all at once.

I am a creature of the mind whose intellectuality was birthed of lust. I am a thing formed for lascivious indulgences, yet so mighty in my pleasures that the psyche must open and flower at my touch. When my lover and I find our union in concupiscence, I feel exalted through every fiber of my being, the truth of me recognized along all human dimensions and worshipped for its every crease, crinkle, and contour.

Together, we conjugate the unbounded potentialities of life.

This is what it is to be fully made love to.

And I wish it for all of you out there. The world would be such an improved milieu, were it the universal dominion of this experience.