Sometimes I tempt myself with the softness of her palms, the brisk nature of giggles and laughter and the overriding sensibility of lust and together, paired like wine. Moments like those are edgy and crisp, like the sweetness of good Champagne or the driving accusations of understanding and comprehension. Sometimes the mind is its own divinity, the raunchiness of youthful intellect and unknowing, the innocence of preservation and the wistful graciousness of insensibility. For the palms are more than hands but rather the token of gratitude, an entrance into the bounty of deities more graceful than the everlasting figures of what controls the fragility of night and day. Instead of hands they act as their own subordinates, the fine controls to a beautiful machine called ‘the body.’ With hers in mine there’s a chain-like movement, a serenade of sensibility and trust that overrides the fear and anxiety that creeps like vermin in the back of the human conscious. Within the small grip, lies the great brevity of care and compassion.
Even in the darkness of a nighttime walk the brightness of kinship shone like a flashlight, brighter than the eyes of an epiphany. Her hand in mine together we walked step by step down the path, stone by stone and little-rock by little-rock. The crickets chirped and the tweeting Tattler-birds tattled their tales of musical notes and choruses, a melodic, soothing piece of seed for the growing orchestra of the night. The stones arranged as a road, carefully woven with the hands of granite and marble and smoothed like pumice, her sneakers softly squeaking across their rigid steps as she tripped, giggling as she fell into my arms. When the world became in-synch once again, I wrapped my fingers around that tiny little grip and onwards, we danced on into the serenade of the night.
The further along the path the darker the woods became, trees no longer pieces of the arboreal standing army but rather monoliths of protection, massive soldiers frozen in time defending a nonexistent antagonist. Slowly she lowered her head onto my shoulder, pulling herself closer to me and tightening her little fingers around my arms. In another way I tightened mine, in an everlasting hold I held her to me, watching the soldiers standing around us. They say that inanimate objects can see everything, but in the depths of the terrestrial darkness, the murmur of rustling leaves could be heard like whispers of ghosts, softly crying for a step further and with every step calling like mice to men for a tighter grip. I smiled, feeling my chin resting on her soft head, and feeling the beating of her chest like a rhythmic pulsing, up, and down, and up, like a metaphysical sunrise and sunset.
Soon the road came to an end, and she giggled, pointing out over the ravine. Overlooking the lake was the bright Man in the Moon himself, his gaze an ether of blue and silver energy radiating across the night sky. Gradually I lowered myself down, the grass soft with the dew and mist of the lake throughout the extent of time, and slowly she lowered down too, putting her hand in mine and whispering to me the beauty of the nighttime sky.
In that quiet moment the lake and the trees together began to call out like minute cheers, in that quiet moment the serenity of the waves crashing gently on top of each other began to sound like clinking glass, in that quiet moment the same brevity of compassion began to grow like psychological seedlings. She turned to me and she smiled, her teeth like diamonds reflecting the glint of the moon, one by one the treasures buried in the sea of darkness. Her eyes were deep and velvet purple, small like marbles but striking like glass, her complexion finer than smoothed silk. Slowly she walked her hands up my shoulders, reaching
her soft palms behind my neck, and as I breathed a silent “I love you,” the warm taste of her lips met mine.
Her lips were soft. Smooth, and soft. Under the light of the lunar watchman I wrapped my hands behind her, running each of my fingers across her shoulder blades and allowing the convulsions of compassion and lustful attachment ground my mind, her lips tasted sweet, like a sugar finer than the tiniest grains. Sometimes in the moment the world begins to stop, as the Earth rotates the surrounding reality melts into her, the beauty of a fragile nature becomes one with the feelings of trust and shared empathy, sympathy, the human machine of time no longer means to exist. In the moment, as the rest of the world falls behind, that singular moment, more sense and sensibility than the quaintness of her fragile fingertips, more above than the celestial deities and more holy than scripture, together, the world becomes ethereal.
But there’s a word for this overbearing ethereality. A fine sense grounded between psychological insanity and the greatest surreal bliss. More dangerous and untamed than the Island or Doctor Moreau and yet more careful than the strongest glass, more protective than bulletproof and weaker than the tiniest rope, halfway between crazy and wonderful, the brevity of compassion and trust for the opposite lies within one frequency, one fine-tuned comprehension of the greatest sense that exists between the neurons and cavities of the human brain, a single-felt emotion with more raw spirit than the animalistic nature of the human conscious. Together, with hands held high, hands held tight and soft palms embracing with kisses and compassion and the truest sense of wanting to be with one another, together that dangerous, untamed spirit runs rampant and becomes the greatest brevity sharper than cut steel and warmer than a kitten’s purr, the ultimatum for what represents the ideals and hopes and dreams of what she gives and feels for me, and what I cannot explain in words how I feel for her, one word, one phrase that encompasses the realest form of the human experience, one that I don’t understand, and never wish to: true, undying, peaceful love.