I suppose that words, timely and arranged in the right order, produce an afterglow.
∆ p.58, Lost Children Archive, Valeria Luiselli
You moved me and my furniture not once, not twice, not fourth, but so many more times, you carried the table and chairs I did not know I needed to make these spaces mine, you held my hand when I cried about the time that does not give back, you warmed up my body gluing to mine, your smell was the only perfume that traveled with me throughout, you've let me go and leave, come again, i love you, you're this friend I thought I could never be around
Sex as an encounter with our capacity to evoke, embody and emit pleasure through our physical selves.
Sex as a conversation with dichotomies, binaries and polarities.
Sex as alchemy, as the marriage between hard and soft, wet and dry, firm and tender, slow and fast.
Sex as breath.
Sex as silence.
Sex as screams, as sound, as wavelengths, as oscillation, as pendulums, as shifts in gravity, shifts in center.
Sex as both a recognition of and antithesis to grief, loss, mourning, endings, aging, demise.
Sex as the careful balancing of vulnerability and courage.
Sex as selfishness.
Sex as selflessness.