You have not known what you are.
You have slumbered upon yourself all your life.
Your eyes have been as much as closed most of the time.
What you have done is already in mockeries.

The mockeries are not you.
Underneath them
And within them,
I see you lurk...

-Walt Whitman



INTIMACY is these limbs perfectly tangled with yours - an organized chaos; those carotids pulsating in close proximity to my heart, as if talking in silent whispers, of stories only us would now. Words, all abstractions reduced to just mere concepts, insignificant, like time, slithering aimlessly past the moment.

I know now that to be intimate is to be completely naked, shedding sheets and sheets of us and not be ashamed. No calculated steps, no fear or doubt, just a dance of bodies in deep yearning, to fall, filling wonder with every sensation amplified against the lack of light.

What could have prepared us for this - when someday becomes today, the first actual memory? The eagerness, the easiness of it? To the overwhelming certainty that I can now define you through touch, in any sense, that your every surface, stretch of skin is mine to claim, every beating, sadness, joy; all of you is now within reach.

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