Strangers Making Love

        
We sat at the beach that summer night. My head on your lap, your fingers running through my hair—we were both looking at the constellations—and our hearts connected, as if the world had stopped spinning for a moment and the universe was witnessing this moment. We simply loved.

And even when the intensity of our love burned the energy of our very opposite hearts, we remained two different individuals, two separate species who simply loved against the odds.

We sat at the beach that summer night. My lips on your lips; we softly kissed. The intensity of our dangerous attraction betrayed the species; we made love.

And now on your bedside our love is unexpected, too strong, heated, extremely sexual, consumed by the density of our breaths—unknown feelings of the flesh—not sinful, but so perfect that it is angelical.

We sat at the beach that summer night. My fingers misplaced all around your body. Your warm kisses all over my neck. We acted as two prostitutes paying each other with love the product of sexual interaction.

Our love is honest, shameless, fearless, willing to explore and discover those feelings that wrap the soul and poison the heart in occasions when silence reigns and hope fades away.

You say you are afraid.

We sat at the beach that summer night. You showed me the kind of love that made the universe stopped spinning for a moment. Now on your bedside you claim you are afraid—our love is so perfect it is angelical you say—and you are afraid.

I am afraid.

With unexpected love like ours, we never know what is next. We must be afraid—not of loosing each other—but of loving each other so much that we become one, eliminating the curiosity that intrigues us to explore all unknown corners of our souls.

That summer night at the beach, and now on your bedside we continue to make love to the one stranger we love the most.