the mystery of intimacy

she moves in mysterious ways. her body is seductive. being the beacon, drawing energy in. 
sensuality a perfume announcing her own freedom. spells cast in the swish of hips. heads turn, doors swing open.

the first time their eyes met she watched him strip down. felt him dive in.

a hungry, humble, offering.

who cast the circle that caught them up? her body. his eyes.

there was a feast waiting. epic discovery filling the landscape between them. words shared in silence. sacred stories revealed in movements unpacking long since embodied gifts and bearing weighty wounds.

those stories. the juice of consciousness. holding the stamp creases of differing cultures. those stories, sculpting the shape of jaw, the pace of walk, the arch of limb, the mark of old scars.

shame and vulnerability and truth and body puts all players in the same wide open field.

and there they were eye to eye. and she looked into the scrying pool of him. seeing youth and fire, hearing his echoing hunger and innocence taken too soon. feeling the intriguing burn of anger and pain. all the while recognizing a great bird that hadn't yet learned to use his wings.

spells are woven in who we are. in how we are. in where we are.

spells are woven in who we are in how we are in where we are.

spells are woven in who we are. in how we are in where we are

bodies bumping up against each other. letting off sparks that ignite something. heat something. invite something. awaken something.

the spells deepen through touch, blue threads of light prisms pressing upon the parts once cut off and separated. sensuality, synergy, seducing possibility. invoking unyielding chemistry. gathering all the broken pieces back in.

some teachers say to call forth you must breathe it, speak it, feel it, dance it, romance it, drum it, draw it, dream it awake, touch it, taste it, smell it, celebrate it's becoming. let it leak form every possible channel of our sensational aliveness.

mostly it seems we are fumbling. weaving webs unexpectedly. inoculated by the unnamed energies we have forgotten how to speak and name and read.

and what of touch. he said to her in the quiet moments that grew from eyes that could not, would not turn away., he had never made love to the mystery, had never let himself be touched. touched. touched. touched.

he was always just fucking for fucking's sake. when she asked him about the sexual sensuality of body exploring body

he grew small beneath her hands. a boy lost in holy lands. begging to be initiated into a new way. cast a spell he begged. initiate me into the mystery.

she threaded and weaved with hip and hand. an invocation of intimacy to wake and rise and expand beneath his skin not just in the lift of prick. but in the pulse of presence deepening the pulse of rhythm quickening. the synergy of symmetry in the simplest touch of body. body. body.

he had to be tempered, tended, tamed like a sacred brew. not bubbling and boiling over as he was prone to do.

a mystical recipe of pressure, pause, caress. a continuous infusion of body presence breath. attention to feeling. holding the heat. watching the energy happening in between.

between their eyes. between finger tips and second skins. between their thighs and the untouched crevices within.

blue sparks of creativity lit up the room. she watched him rise. he felt her open. she saw him come home to the depth longed for but not yet quenched. intitation comes in many shapes

potency lives in holding heat, power builds within and between. they dance in the center of the vibrating beat of movement, touch and chemistry. making love to the mystery of living in body. touched and felt. seen and seen and seen. caressed from crown to ground and explored as sacred sensual territory. do they dare let this ripple infinitely?

spells are woven in who we are. in how we are in where we are

how are you moving? who are you seeing?

what happens if you let it all the way in?

eyes open. dive in. again. if you dare.