Make love beneath the whisper of rain at the window. The horizon, hiding in its corner, purrs like a cat. Sweat drops, raindrops pooled between shoulder blades. A pity the script ran long, the film cuts short... I switched on the TV, joining the rain's murmur, And such dubbing follows those held captive in paradise.
# To Make Love To make love is to grow old together— not in the shallow wrinkle of a single night, but in the deep lines carved by years of looking into the same face at dawn, at dusk, in the forgiving dark. To make love is to learn a language no dictionary knows: the syntax of a sigh, the grammar of a touch that asks nothing but permission to stay. It is not the storm (though storms will come). It is the patient rain that teaches the earth to remember thirst. To make love is to be broken open and find, impossibly, that you were always meant to be this way— a door that swings both inward and out, a room that fills with light only when someone else enters. It is to know you are not enough and that this, somehow, is everything— this hunger, this reaching, this decision made again each morning to stay.
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