The closest I get to making love, these days, is the last class of the day in the yoga studio. Laying there in the dark room, candles lit on the altar, I'm on my back, savasana, warm and sweaty, body limber, legs open, heart open.

Wanting to be entered by some great force, taken over, tangibly worshipped.

Then someone opens a book of poetry. Rumi.

"There is some kiss we want with our whole lives, the touch of the Spirit on the body." 

I go into fantasy and linger there a while, I long to be made love to, this woman that I am, this woman that I have become, I want to be made love to with all my being, seen, touched, at this age, at this moment, the whole me, with complete trust, hung in guiltlessness, held in passion.

It’s funny the things we remember and the things we don't.

I remember how a person makes me feel, how I stopped thinking about myself in the moments of being together because I didn't have to hide anything or be anything other than who I am and how I am.  

There are few people who have made me forget myself this way.

Staying up late telling stories, making love in the dark. 

Less like love making and more like gathering broken parts of ourselves and applying pressure and healing salve to the parts with salty waters, saliva, sweat, and cum. 

Press hand here, release pressure, palm, cup, grasp, scratch, thrust, add more weight, more saliva, more tears, more salve, and things begin to feel better.

I remember once a lover said to me, "Come home now." 

I was across the country visiting friends. The distance made us realize we wanted each other. We needed to be together, physically, touching, not just talking, but being together, without any space between us. That distance made the intensity of each other's physical presence necessary.

I never wanted to come home more, in my entire life.

One morning in the park after we'd gone to get coffee, we were sitting there in the sunshine, he was smoking a cigarette, a habit he hid from everyone but me.

I was so relaxed.

I was so myself.

Funny how sometimes you only know yourself by making love to someone else, like coming home to a familiar place, but only one that they could bring you to.

Those few who have made me come. Those few who have made me want to come home, to them.

And the few who were home, when I arrived.  

We made love in the dark, so that we could be ourselves.

There is some kiss we want
with our whole lives,
the touch of Spirit on the body.

Seawater begs the pearl
to break its shell.

And the lily, how passionately
it needs some wild Darling!

At night, I open the window
and ask the moon to come
and press its face into mine.
Breathe into me.

Close the language-door,
and open the love-window.

The moon won't use the door,

only the window. 

— RUMI