734. lightning in a fallow field

She placed her hands on his shoulders and looked over his shoulder, to the parchment, to his pen moving faster and faster, words appearing where before was canvas, as the field not sowed.

Her fingers touch me like fire, like lightning striking fallow field, and from that divine touch, an energy flows from her to me and I can't help but feel alive like Spring. How she does this, with just a look, a touch, sometimes a word, I can't explain. As if she has an aura, some unseen mystical energy that changes my world every time I hear her voice, every time she enters a room and across that room, looks my way, but not just looks, there is a look to the look I cannot explain, the kind of look, no matter the number in the room, that parts the wave of humanity and everything drops away, all the sound, the faces, even the music fades, and with that look, there is just her and me, but it is really not like that. There is not the separation of a her and a me. Instead, there is an us.

Is that what we are? An Us she asked.

I'm afraid language fails me, he said. More than an us. When I think of heaven and I think of how being in heaven would change how I see, how I feel, about everything, when you are here, it feels like that.

Like an angel has appeared?

More than that, he said, turning to face her as his eyes found her eyes, and glinted rims shown bright and then brighter and her hands took his head as if holding the world, her world, and slowly, in the way one starts a dive, lowered her lips to his.

The kisses were not like kisses, not a prelude, or even desire manifesting. They were as water to fish or sky to bird or even breath to a newborn, a union of souls, tongues as vine growing from the same root. And where before there was clock and watch, not here, never here, this place of no time, of no space, of no separation; this place where with closed eyes there was more light than noon and breath, warm, nourished as waves, pregnant, as love is pregnant eternal. They kissed like this.