Making love is an act of revolution. The sweat, the stench, the quiver, the power. Have you ever? Don't you know? It's the feel, the rub of a hand upon a love handle, a pulse in an eardrum.
We all know.
Don't we all want to go back there? Can't we all remember? We tremble in our shyness and we blush in desire. We sweat and lust and bead our sweat and rub our hands against our temples and regret losing track of a life we all could've once lived.
And we furrow our brows.
We make moves and find rooms and combine bodies and rub and lust and love.
We COME.
Then we lie our ears upon our lover's breast and listen.
What is heard? A beat, a rhythm that reminds us of the sound of something we lost or forgot a long time ago. A human heartbeat. The sound of someone loving you. We forget, we ignore the annoying whisper, the silent whimper, of someone we should love. Someone we could love. Someone we could all not be alone with.
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