Won't you lend your lungs to me
Mine are collapsing
Plant my feet and bitterly breathe
Up the time that's passing
Breath I'll take and breath I'll give
And pray the day's not poison
Stand among the ones that live
In lonely indecision

Townes Van Zandt

I don't want to wait
For our lives to be over
I want to know right now
What will it be?

I Don't Want to Wait
Paula Cole


Hush, love.


I took a lifetime to find you and my childhood to get to your side. Now here thigh to thigh, must we waste another life's days to cross the last yard? Eternity to cross the last inch?


This is how it feels, to be present, and nothing between but the want of the other. And touch isn't enough. I want the smell of you, the thought of you. I want to consume the light of you that illuminates my mind and creates the story of us. I want to dissolve you in me so your history becomes mine, and I can remember your first breath.


When it starts it's soundless. Timeless solitude. The image of her that becomes a drop is her fingertip gliding across skin underneath the cloth just as water from the heavens that in delicate adherence changes how he thinks of himself, like a swimmer fresh from a pool, or a child in from the rain must say: first I was, but now I am bathed in you, unrecognizable as the boy who stood before.

And he wants the rain all over. Wet in invisible warmth from her to him, cradled in the light from her skin that fills his mind with how he would woo her if only he'd been a poet. The slide of her hand, tiny electricity against his thigh. Live at the point of contact, energized and anticipating its travel up the length of his limb, through the skin to the heart itself--it's how she adores him.

He wants to tell her he's found within himself something smooth and valuable, the scintillation of pure grace he was granted at birth.


The scent of something sweet that rises between them draws her, until she is falling. And leaning into his palm against her cheek she imagines the dream of him could protect her from pain that prowls the night, from lightning and unlucky cards, the tigers and hurricanes.

She wants to be locked inside forever with nothing more than the storm and the sun inside him, the subtle hiss of flesh against flesh, the sound of his hand wiping sweat from his brow, the cool cut of his jaw through the air and the force of his gaze upon space as if he commands it to be. To fall within and through him so in his bringing her creation, she creates life.

She wants to tell him she can see further than now, but the words are lost on his movement toward her, and captures her the way twinkling stars and half-thought notions become entangled in poems and unfinished sentences.

Quiet, love.

Eyes closed they can still see. His lips in her mind. Glistening wet in the corner of her eye.

Now they move through the separation of their breath. Now divided only by the tenuous thread of starlight from the night outside, it disappears in exploring the last millimeter of what they were, and at last feel the flesh quiver underneath, something real and alive to touch with the tongue.

Alive as if born in each other's radiance, this becomes their story.