Making Love in Its Most Intricate Forms

Making love is more than the slow slide of your hand to my craving thighs, fingers slowly tickling its ways through my loins. It's more quenching than the finished races. It's more than the built up exhilarating thrill that moment before we kiss; faces inches away from each other, interchanging petrifying breaths, making everything stop to the point where I want nothing in the world but to smell the air you breathe and to so eagerly get my lips closest to yours until I maybe gently bite yours.

Making love is the audacity of our souls to disclose themselves to their vulnerability, seeing each of the scars of your bare flesh which is not mine to take, but us to share. Making love is tequilla shots in the glass walls of the hundreth floor rounded by the most exquisite of the night lights and the bustling cities. It's naked conversations about life and where it's headed, naughty banters, making out on cold marbles of the kitchen floor or beside the sink. It's the scented bubble baths and Charcuterie. It's intertwining tongues as we wait for the ring of the microwave for popcorns, watching movies, moist breath on the ears, playful bites on its lobes.

Making love is the two of us in the park at 2AM, eyeing the stars that might not even be for us, catching all the life it has to offer with its light, ceaseless talks, uncertainty. The cold beads left from the afternoon drizzles creeping from the sleeping leaves to my bare back and all my skin all felt nothing when I felt your weight between my hips. In the most criptic of ways, it makes me feel special. Yet again, like we're the only souls lost in the dreary wilderness where no one hears our exclamations.

Making love is making a team, interconnecting two bodies, letting the waves flow from one to the other. Making love is the simplest of nights where you hold hands through the worst of the storms. It is the exchange of texts and updates. It's barely seeing each other. It's pouring all the broken pieces of your heart to a jar and letting someone else hold it for you on the journey of life. It's the jar falling, leaving your scattered pieces pierced by the broken glass fragments of the jar. Love is never made with or without hurt.

Author Notes: Disclaimer: The scenarios are entirely fictional. Cathartic purposes. Rambled on at 2AM before Easter/To be edited

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