The body keeps a feverish count of days, and old, heavy skin it longs to shed.

It cries for touch in quiet, desperate ways, to fill the hollowed spaces in the bed.

We call it romance, call it a sizzling fire, but sex is just the language of love. It's a burning flame of desire.

A furious scratching, and a deep need to touch a body, a craving of the soul, that can leave grief behind.

There is a loneliness that walks through crowds, and one that sits beside you on a couch.

A black hole draped in suffocating clouds, that flinches, at a well-intentioned touch.

So we escape, we run to foreign lands, we change our name, our habits, and our clothes,

seeking the sanctuary of a stranger's hands, to quieten down the ghost no one knows.

But flesh can only carry us so far, grief follows, the friction burns, nothing melts the past.

It leaves us reaching for a distant star, wondering, how long the temporary peace will last.

Until, the mind, that brilliant, soaring space unlocks a door, where judgement cannot follow.

Where words become the skin on which we cling, and rewrite every space that once felt hollow.

Here, in the ink, the heavy burdens fade, the gulf gets filled.

The ache gets met with fierce, untamed relief.

We read, we touch, we bleed upon the page. We become sexual in our wants and needs.

A beautiful, erotic masquerade which can heal the fractures of a life long-grief, it fills the void, the empty space;

the erotic adventure begins.

The imagination strikes that vital spark, turns anguish to sexual energy, needing and wanting the touch of a soul.

Two minds, two bodies, becoming one within the dark, writhing with each other not in pain, but erotic enjoyment.

A wild freedom, born within the mind it creates the wonderful feeling of togetherness and freedom.

Eventually the friction of bodies creates a release, a release of the mind, the body and the soul.

Together, sapped in sexual enjoyment, they collapse in unity, sated in enjoyment and desires met.