Our heart is a collective of acceptance, tenderness, and pleasure. Our love, a compassionate desire. The thirst we quench is a fire which burns within each of us, uniquely and respectively. When the tender lips of our edges brush, a wildfire spreads across the landscape without mercy. The sparks are our children. The flames, the very beating of our hearts. And tears of relief, weeping, smiling, wailing at ghosts, tearing at the bottom of the bowl, and then howling at the moon with the glistening wetness still streaming down out faces.

We devour one another, savoring our flavors, reveling in textures, and passions which pique the mind, the eyes, the body, and our souls.
Our conversation began in the milky dusk of twilight, before life existed. With the urgency of light, the humility of the wind, and the persistence of the tide, is shall continue without end.

The hunger and longing we feel when there is adequate space between us to feel alone is like the crispness of fresh air against our skin when we walk away from the fire. If we stayed by the firelight, always, who would bring the wood? Who would gather the food? What ever would become of us?

So let the tides flow, let the wind blow, let the fires burn out, and welcome the cold sting of morning air. Build another stack of wood, there are trees around us always in need of chopping, trimming, and stacking. Sweep the pit, and bury the ashes, clearing a space for inspiration, and the passion of flames which will come. Sift the grains, and set the table, wash the soot from your feet in the chilly streams, fill the urns with water, and restore the quiet in your head.

The nagging ache of longing, the dryness in the back of our throats, the curve of your back in the palm of my hands, and the taste of you on my lips, when I am so far from home is not avoid, no evidence of emptiness, no desperation, but the smoldering embers of respect, and love which I keep safe to re-light the bonfire of your heart when next I see your tender face.