As I hunch over this desk in the darkness of my rented room, thinking of you, and our love, I realize that I do not express our love, except as a feeling…
And this is how my love for Sailor is different; it is less a feeling, and more a living. It is an action, and a movement, and a doing.
Perhaps, if I explain what occurs between us, if I give testament, as I would to witnesses, it would be a beginning…
So I will tell you about Sailor.
Sailor is my lover. And everything we have together grows from our love, our physical love, just as the sparkle of sunlight on a dewdrop lives on a leaf which feeds on the thick hummus, through the coiling of a root in the black soil, which is decay, and which is life…
Our world grows from our fuck. Our fuck is a ritual, and a living, and a rite, and a work. It is an annointing, and a joining, and a freedom. It is a mercy, and a song, and a light.
We knew from our first days together that our need for each other’s pleasure, for the fact of our coupling, was an engine that could carry us through any darkness, if only we could cultivate an instant to shift the color of morning from purple lethargy to the pale gold of dawn, and change our skin from the skin of sleep to the skin which is awakened, and astonished, to be the skin of touch, and of sensation.
Even in the moment before desire, in the moment when touch is touch alone, and its lightness awakens something, gently at first; it grows, and spreads to our lips, and our fingers…and becomes our prayer, our daily bread, which is not consumed greedily, or all at once, leaving us sated, and inactive…but which is divided across the span of time, so that a single sentence spoken between us may reach across a day, a week, a month…so that our lovemaking is divided by our rituals, our daily tasks…so that walking, and sitting, and standing, cover us lightly like the finest silks. In this way, we are sensate in the daytime; in this way our talking prolongs our come cry into song.
We make love, every morning, year in and year out, so that a decade breaks, and it is still the morning of our love.
This is how I know Sailor; this is how I love her.
We share the riches of the earth; we share a kissing of roots.
It is no gloating; I do not proclaim it as prowess, or accomplishment. I proclaim it only to say we devote ourselves to roots. Just as some lovers kiss…everyday we touch, and resolve to touch, and fake nothing, and give movement to our breath, and time. We allow ourselves to feel, so that just as our breath rises in our bodies, our love also rises. It rises, and it grows…if it is allowed to grow…and not forced to pop like fireworks which fall back as dust, and ribbons of ash, leaving a darkened sky which is unfilled until the next time something is constructed, and brought forward, and exploded to impress…
Our love is like a green shoot; it is tender, and slowmoving, and alive.
After all, what tree, when lit at night by candlelight, does not bring dazzlement and wonder to the eye? What blossom, in its flowering, does not open for days on end? What stars do not shine most brilliantly when the darkness which falls is encompassing, oceanic, complete?
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