"How would you make love to me?" you mumble in the darkness. You’re on the edge of sleep, the precipice of your daily death.
“I would make love to you with fumbling hands, exploring your body with the kind of caution that would drive you mad. I would ask permission for every little thing. I would be like a child, naive and timid, hoping you lead the way. In my heightened self-consciousness, I would look upon my body, pockmarked and scarred, as unworthy.
But part way through, I hope, I will throw off this anxiety, this nervousness and I will lose myself to the pleasure of you and me. I will find a way to give in to instinct. I will drop my fumbling, clumsy hands and pick up a bodily confidence, dust it off, and wear it around my neck like a cross. And when words fail me I will listen to the rhythm of your moans as they punctuate the air like Morse code, and I will respond in kind. My hands will be guided by instinct, following what our bodies tell us. I will make love to you with a reverence reserved for the Holy Sepulchre itself.”
Suddenly pulled back from death, you roll over on top of me and start planting kisses down my arms. Then you move up to my neck. My heart rate jumps and you are sighing passion, gasping for breaths in between, and moving to my lips.
“Stop.” I whisper, managing to get the word out. You do.
“This feels wrong. I’m only going to be here a few more weeks.”
“So it’s impossible for us to be in a relationship.”
“So you can only have sex with someone you’re in a relationship with? Who made that rule?”
I try to remember but can’t. I’m caught off guard. I suddenly can’t think of a reason why we shouldn’t have sex, a temporary amnesia I blame you for. You’re here, you’re willing, and I know, I know you’ll be good to me. I know you will not laugh and I know you’ll steady my trembling, fumbling hands.
In my silence, you resume your sinful temptations.
“We should stop,” I say.
But we don’t. We slide deeper and deeper into sin, into lust, into corporeality, into bodies and into each other, colliding and crashing into each other’s open mouths and open wounds. You are my Holy Sepulchre. I have died in your arms and now you will resurrect me.
"You are my Holy Sepulchre" (via typewriterdaily)