some other window

Do we not seek the divine in everything? Seeking is free. Why would we seek any less in any thing?

So when we are together, I look for a touch, a glance, a word, the language of a sigh, of eyes not looking seen, the braille of muscle, bone and skin. Sometimes it is the tilt of the head. The curve of a smile felt in the heart. Dopamine floods my neural pathways. The body relaxes as upon a summer lake floating. Cognition of pain is absent. Tear ducts dry. Production shut down. With presence, sunlight, dawn, day and blue sky. And as no rain falls without clouds, her atmosphere is clear to the horizon. The body itself has travelled, been touched of eolian time. Skin is not as it was nor will it ever be, as it was. Those years have passed. Recorded. Put away. Yet the inner lip has not changed of hue or glisten, some last holdout in youthful amaranth. So too the eyes rimmed in memory, wet of hope or loss or dream is not known but for the seeking, the needing of that touch as one might imagine a newborn, not knowing, but needing to be held, touched, suckled in union of mother in child. Sighs are released like balloons escaping from young hands unexpectedly. Beautiful in quiet release, forever rising into the pale cloudless heavens. In these moments, the language is not of words and sometimes not of touch or even looking. Some other window has opened. And the breeze is as nothing other than pure light.