She called his name and he whispered hers, the sound of her voice almost finished when he started his own.
The tiny black mark left when a lit match touches skin...that split second of pain in the extinguishing of flame...the ending and a beginning, almost simultaneously played out.
There are never two falling stars...but sometimes there are two rainbows. Seven colored versions...rare.
The outstretched hands of a trapeze artist, reaching out in mid-air...grasping, letting loose and falling only to find the warm grip of another...a togetherness above the net, safely held, and then they were together.
The split seconds.
The blow out of a birthday candle and the immediate wish being granted.
It is the running, the sprinting, the heads-down acceleration and the sweating and the focus and then the tiny subtle stumble, the out of control windmilling of the arms and the gravity effect pulling you in and then instead of a hard crash landing you are caught in some arms and you remember and you let yourself fall and instead of falling you saunter, you slowly glide, you slippery slope into a slumber, you align and you are conjoined and you are still...except for a heart racing from the sprint, still sweaty.
You exhale and you inhale him...and he inhales you.
In an empty church quiet...red letters tell the time on a clock but the day is still.
We stick.
We stick to each other, names in ears, darkened hair clinging to foreheads...salt of mouths, a warmth that is connected like skin...
Never have the pillows felt like this when we land...never has the ceiling been so blurred.
Never has the outside been so far away.
Never has our proximity been this close, in synch and for some insane reason the beat of your heart merely mirrors that of mine.
