At turns crying and laughing, sweetly embracing, sharing saccharine saline and saliva, relief and disbelief, utter joy and the exquisite agony of existence. At some point we stop being merely ourselves. We expand and dissolve, slipping between the atoms of the universe into something seraphic. She licks my tears and declares them ambrosia. I trace the inside of her soul and graze the contours of Gaia. We regress into evolution, animal and archaic, exponentially experiential, presently intense yet stretched from creation to cataclysm, living outside of chronology. We laugh with each other, cry, sigh, and realise who we are.
I can sense a rime of salt caked into the upper rim of my ears. After tears. I shouldn’t cry on my back but I like the way it feels, a milder misery than the wracking hunch or mirror stare manoeuvre. The tears run of course, down my cheeks and into the auricles, crusting, sometimes for days, as though the sandman had missed his mark, wept and moved on. I do feel tired though, which is different from sleepy and accrues an internal kind of crust. I cup my hands around my ears and listen to the ocean die.