moqueur:

It’s the moment when you roll over. Heart steadies. Sheets sigh with fatigue. The ceiling looks a little darker than it did an hour ago, the fingertips trace mumbled caresses, your mind returns. About the time the thickness of the air settles and there’s nothing left of instinct is when. It’s the moment for the universe to recognize us, as humans, in our masterpiece, and stand in awe. Just after our hip bones clicked like jigsaw puzzles and my jaw found its polar opposite in yours as they became magnetically inseparable- lock and roll. Right about now the cellos whisper me to almost tears for this rhapsody, an uprising in me not of you and me, but of us. A being. I can’t imagine how I could even be without a taste of their afterglow- harmonious and euphoric as the guillotine slice, sans the slice. Because we are not in this room. We are somewhere else. I am in your delicately closed eyelids, I know you’re sweeping low beams back from the other side. And you are in my back, your palms tell me so. This room didn’t even happen, sans the moment.