Life is too short for boring stories

I was lying on the dock that night, naked and stretched out on my back, and small drops of water shimmered like pearls on my skin as they reflected the moonlight. I had swum through the lake, was immersed in the clear water, weightless, caressed and carried. The drops of water shimmered on my skin like the morning dew on the blossoms opening towards the sun.

They helped to alleviate a little, cooling the burning longing as best they could, until the one on whom the gaze of my longing was directed came to me, until you came, transformed the burning into a warming, tamed light. You had inflicted the wound on me, kindled this fire that never quite died out in me, ate me up, burned me out, hollowed me out. And you brought me healing, with your arrival, and the space that the fire had eaten into me was that of your arrival, your acceptance into me.

That night you came to sit with me, as you did countless times before – who can count, in the face of you. Isn’t it always too often, even too often the first time, to ever escape again? Isn’t it always too seldom, each time opening the desire for another? You came to touch me, and your touch settles on my skin, penetrates through it to the flesh, burns the flesh to the bone, etches itself into the bones. Your touch leaves a burning wound, engraves my body with you, tattoos itself into every inch of skin. Your touch closes the wounds as if they had never happened, lets the gaping, bloody flesh grow together again, as if it had never been anything other than before the healing through your touch.

You came to kiss me that night, to kiss away every single drop of water, and your kisses are the explosive that bursts the doors to my interior, that tears the locks apart, so that all suffering, all pain, all wounding flow out of me can. Your kisses tear the last barrier from me, so that I am in front of you, in a nudity that goes far beyond the physical exposure, which shows me in all disturbing being-in-itself, without ornamentation and frills, without the possibility of ever getting back in to be able to withdraw the security of mine. The wound from the opening, which your kisses wrest from me, tears me into a thousand pieces, a tear, through me, through my world and through my self-evidence. You kissed me, kissed every single drop of water from my body, and the tears from my face, the sweet drops from my body and the salty tears from my face, and your kisses brought me together again, made me whole, they added to the you supplement, and I was like I never was, and yet could have been.

You are me, wounding and healing, you are me you.

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