Sometime's the words don't work. The discomfort is real though. The wanting runs far deeper than lust coiled in loins. The wanting rushes through the soul, holding it captive. Making it beat against the confines of the human body, its corporeal prison. A kestrel with clipped wings. No one gets the basics of love correct. True love, true love makes you aware of the kestrel beating in your breast, makes you catch the scent of open air, shining skies, and blush-scented breeze. You are forever caught between ground and moon, painfully aware of your position in perfect, poignant, blessed purgatory. If you are so lucky as to be loved in return, you feel the spray of rapids, hear the thunder of waterfalls (or are they heartbeats?), fly towards infinity without a map or navigation. You join hands, you leap, you plunge, you cascade over those falls, and you never look back.
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