We are lying together in his bed, touching and naked save the sheets. His room is impossibly dark, only lit by the blinking of electronic lights. We grasp each other's arms and rub the skin all the way down, down, down, and end up, set up, clutching hands frantically - we only hold hands by accident. He shakes my arm in the way he does when high and wound up and full of raw, sexual energy.

"You understand," he repeats, and sighs, happy lighter-fluid on his breath.

I nod, and always nod, head swimming and heart pounding, my body still contracting. I can tell by the way he leans his face into my hair that he is smiling, and his mouth makes a kiss on my scalp. He is happy, he is excited, he is fulfilled; I am reverent and supplicant and wholly content. He is the best lover I have ever known, and I am sugar on his lips and in his brain.

"I mean you honestly get it, like, you know what it's about to be alive, to be rational and not pray to any god, or hurt others intentionally, or to talk about sex and let it feel good naturally!" Every sentence is ended with an exclamation, and his voice is silk, is southern velvet and hot whisky in tone; I only tell you so that you may understand.

To be alone with you is to know what it is to be one. In the other we have finally found our other half, and this is worship for us, for two atheists. This is the kind of thought that I know has already occurred, both to him and to others. I smile anyway and say it secretly:

Josh keeps saying, you understand. I keep thinking, I have found You.

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