Making love isn’t an accurate term, as love is not made. Love is what everything is made of. So I say we rose in love, blossoming in echoes of starlight cast into the canvas of flesh. The body cloth lifted up with the wind and our lights rose back to where it all began. We traveled through time and space though our bodies remained vertical in place. Entwined around each other love vines of nectar the flesh a sacred container for our consciousness to nest in sacred figure 8s through star gates past Elvin lines and dragon time to the space of color and light white and blue columns of the sweetest grace, pure crystalline fractals spiraling our essences. It was a note so fine to trace it could not be possible with footprints, but with sparkling star dust lighting our hearts home from the quest of ages into timeless spaces. Home. It was now and then and nearly impossible to describe with a pen. The ink blurs into black pools, pupils for eyes, window off the edge. I saw the truth of tenderness. Love blossoming of the most rarified kind, sweet and utterly divine. We made music with our deepest selves no sound left our mouths yet I felt lifetimes of songs spread through our cells.
Photography: Jolene Monheim
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