It begins with the stars. Man spreads his wings and the stars are all that consumes. Blue fire–they taste the ashes and name them future as they step into the black expanse.
It begins with the warmth. The floor is around and under and in them, and the soil even deeper still, and the taste of dirt between the rolls of steam-cleaned lines cracks the boundaries. They feel themselves against it, and floatin away, and there is only the bliss of self, wrapped in their own wings. Stars! They feel the stars upon their skin, in burst and waves of flame, and they never feel more human than…
The cold, it is the descent. Weightless beyond the starlight, there comes the reality that they cannot reach so far. Fingernails snap under the weight of their broken-hearted deam, the reality that they are watched. All eyes, but no faces to commit. Others roll to the same tune and they are locked in orbit–not of space, or time, but themseles, unable to collide, yet cracked all the same.
Orgasms would not suffice to caintain the repture of that neutron burst, when the flesh parts and the body simply…drifts. A floor, yes, there is ground but there is also the Expanse, and they know what it is to be a part and apart two entities, indivisible yet incomprehensible, with knowing the great beast between them.
The impact with the self is reality’s jolt, the crash that makes it all numb again. There are eyes, then a body, and a taste–salt and chill, the air that has lived to see the beginning and the end of all things.
Bright is the chill. Deep is the waking.
He knows. He will forget. But the bodies at his feet–these he will remember. Until they wake.
Words–they fail before the frame.
The taste of earth remains upon the fettered tongue. And still–the sweat.