It is summer, deep summer,

In the sticky darkness of my bed,

Listening as the thunder rolls down the hills,

That a hard truth, like the lightning sky,

Becomes illuminated.

 

I look at the woman lying beside me,

Asleep, unburdened, and unabashedly snoring.

I take in every curve of her body,

Every strand of dark, fragrant hair.

Lingering in the last pre-dawn hours.

 

Like waves break upon the shore,

And sand runs through one’s fingers,

We are slipping away,

Passion turns to dying embers,

Loving moments lost to time.

 

The seedy ceiling fan cycles dead air,

As my unsteady hand reaches out

For the last cool, sweaty ounces of beer.

I put the glass to my lips,

Ease my head back down,

And watch the storm roll in.

 

I look down at my notebook and study these lines, these twenty-one lines that I’ve written neatly as I could. Were I to look back at previous pages I would see the cross outs, desperate substitutions and angry scribbles that mark a poem’s birth.

“Is this it? Is this really the best I can do?” I say as I lean back in an elegant, white chase lounge.

On this sweltering August afternoon I find myself in the living room of Nadia Starling. We’d met some months back at a writer’s workshop. At the time I had just concluded the latest in a string of failed romances. Her name was Emmaline, the dark-haired woman from my poem. The morning after the break-up I looked in the bathroom mirror and didn’t recognize myself. Who was this bloated, older man? When did my hair get this thin? How long had my eyelids been so bruised? I looked at this face, swollen by alcohol and felt the world drop out from under my feet. While I was busy running from job to job, trying to find better apartments and scrape together a few dollars, life had gotten away from me. Jesus, I was thirty years old and hadn’t accomplished a single fucking thing worth remembering. I was in existential crisis, and dealt with it the only way I knew how. I took out a bottle of cheap whiskey and got real drunk.

Over the course of the next nine days I did not spend a single moment sober. I don’t remember all of it, but on one night I managed to pass out while taking a bath and on another I apparently confessed undying love to a woman I’d broken up with years ago. Goddamnit. On the tenth day I rose, terribly hung over and wishing there was a rock I could crawl under. While forcing electrolytes down my throat and popping ibuprofen, I looked next to the recliner and saw a pile of notebooks. Apparently in my alcoholic stupor I’d dug out a bunch of my old writings. I opened up the first notebook and began to flip through it. Reading these words, I was transported back to sitting at a far desk on the second floor of the University of Vermont’s old student center, the low winter sun leaking through the paneled glass onto my notebook.

I am nineteen years old and my head is full of dreams, that someday I will be a famous poet, whose words are reproduced in popular song and quoted in film (and probably jean commercials too, before I rail about corporate appropriation and fight with my agent about opting for artistic integrity over royalty payments). My poetry wasn’t very good yet, mostly lamenting loneliness and alienation, with a few natural and political observations sprinkled in. But the yet was important. I believed, like Paul McCartney and John Lennon had, that I needed to get the bad verse out of my system before I could improve. I knew it was something of a long shot, but I was filled with ambition, and hope. I can still close my eyes, put on some Simon & Garfunkel and catch just a glimpse of that young man. But that feels like another lifetime.

I looked back at my old poems and they’re still not very good, but it sparked something in me. I decided, years after giving it up that I was going to start writing again. Not in a bid for vain glory or self-delusion, but because I desperately needed something to reignite myself, lest I succumb to utter emptiness. I also wanted to do something of worth, something that might outlive me or at the very least serve as physical evidence that I did more than just exist

I felt in order to do this coherently I needed some critical guidance and reinforcement, so I searched the internet for local writer’s collectives that I might join. I found a group that was not only made up of local writers, but also met in person to workshop each other’s pieces. For the small consideration of $15 a month I could find a community of likeminded artists, and perhaps a reason to carry on. I paid my due on the website and was e-mailed later that day by the founder of the collective, who invited me to join the group the next night and feel free to bring a piece to share.

I was very excited, but then something struck me. Feel free to bring a piece to share. The meeting was tomorrow night and there wasn’t a chance I could craft a halfway decent piece by then, I was just getting reacquainted with the creative side of my brain, which had so long suffered in shadow and neglect. But I didn’t want to show empty handed either. Perhaps I could pass off one of my old poems. I returned to leafing through them, but turning the long-forgotten notebook pages I found nothing but sophomoric efforts and observations that did not belong to a thirty year old man. I was beginning to feel hopeless when I found a folded up, weathered piece of paper stuffed in the pocket at the very end of a large notebook. I opened it up and couldn’t believe my eyes.

Cool, Cool Honey was a poem I had written shortly after my brother had redeployed to the Iraq War. I finished it during a despondent week where I ended up attempting suicide down the Jersey Shore. After I got out of the hospital, I was on strong anti-depressants and lost any desire to continue with writing, so I gave up the ghost and tried to get on with my life. Tears began to well in my bloodshot eyes, I thought this had been lost years ago but here it was. So many memories flooded into my mind that I became overwhelmed and had to sit down. I had packed all of my writing away, and in doing so boxed up a piece of myself. When it was clear that my spark had gone out and it became too painful to read any of my work, I hid it all away to preserve what sanity I had left. Now it was all coming back and I cried seven years worth of tears. When the last of them had spilled out I sat back in my chair and took deep breaths. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea…  No, no I have to do this.

By the next evening I had transcribed Cool, Cool Honey and a few other poems onto my laptop for posterity. I had it printed out and folded in my jacket pocket as I walked from my apartment to the library near the center of town. I love the month of May, the air was fragrant with the smell of blossoming flowers, rich food and the renewal of life after months of darkness. The library was an elegant old building, with two lamp posts on either side of the stairs that were probably once lit by kerosene. I entered the lobby, but before I could even query the librarian I spotted a sign for the collective that directed me to the basement. As I made my way to the basement stairs in the back I marveled at the sights around me. The first floor had book cases every three feet that seemed to stretch on forever, terminating in walls that had what seemed like one endless book case from ceiling to floor. There was a ringed opening revealing the second floor, where comfy chairs and desks were scattered about, and an even more magnificent bookcase lined the walls, so tall that it required one of those sliding ladders to access the books at the top. I looked around at the gilded architecture and the wooden carvings and reproached myself for having never taken advantage of this magnificent place before. But then again, I was here now, and there was still time.

I walked down the stairs and found myself in the wonderfully musty basement. I strode through the periodicals, portraits of the library’s more generous and, probably very dead patrons before coming to a hall with a series of doors. I could see light and life emanating from one of them and suspected I was in the right place. I entered the large room and thought, for a moment, that I had accidentally wandered into an AA meeting. Along the backwall was a table lined with coffee and various pastries, only some of which had been snagged. There was a circle of probably about twenty folding chairs. This was giving me bad flashbacks, and I took a step towards the door. Then I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths to steady myself. There were only a few chairs still open so I apprehensively took a seat.

I took my jacket off and removed my folded poem from it’s inside pocket. I looked around the room as everybody else was busy talking to one another, nervously fiddling with my paper and rereading it over and over again. Then my eyes fell upon a woman sitting directly across from me. She was dressed in a crisp black blazer and spotless black mini skirt. Her stockings ran down her legs and ended in a pair of knee high, black leather boots. She had silky, long brown hair with playful bangs across her forehead. Her lips were full, with cherry red lipstick and deep hazel eyes. My god, her eyes were so beautiful, I imagined even the most seasoned sailor could get lost in them. This was starting to boarder on voyeurism. Without being painfully obvious I looked around the room once more before fixing my eyes firmly on my paper. I was then compelled to adjust my legs and think of cold water.

An older women with brilliant silver hair, moon rimed glasses and a dark blue patterned dress stood up.

“Good evening everyone,” She said, “And welcome once more to a meeting of the Independent Collective Of Northern Writers. It’s wonderful being together again and I’m looking forward to hearing your responses to last week’s prompt. Before we get into that, we do have some housekeeping. Firstly, I’d like to thank Emmanuel for bringing us the coffee and treats tonight.”

The group politely applauded as a younger gentleman, sporting a magnificent mustache gave a wave of his hand in appreciation of the plaudits.

“Tonight we also happen to have a new member with us. Michael would you like to briefly introduce yourself?” She said, motioning in my direction.

“Hi everybody, as… Silvia mentioned my name is Michael.” I said with an awkward pause, “I’m just getting back into writing after a long time away and thought it would be good to get some guidance from other writers, see if I’m wasting my time or not.”

“Well welcome Michael,” Silvia said, “and just so you know it’s our belief that creative writing is never a waste of time. We so glad to have you with us and add your unique narrative voice to the group. Now I believe you mentioned you had a piece you’d like to share with the rest of us? You don’t have to if you’re not comfortable doing so but the floor is yours if you want it.”

“Yes… yeah I can share my poem.” I said. Ugh! Why in the world didn’t I just say that I’d share next time? I adjusted my black rimmed glasses and cleared my throat.

“This is a poem I wrote called Cool, Cool Honey.” I began:

 

Velveteen nights that sway in the breeze,

Music seeps in through the door.

Shuffle up the cards as the Rhymin’ Man plays,

Exotic adventures galore.

 

A hundred proof armor now sits in the fridge,

You break out the glasses, I’ll pour.

We’ll talk about the lives we all ought to live,

And who we are living them for.

 

Cool, cool honey,

Never that far from my mind.

You’re the picture pristine,

Like a late morning dream,

And I’m always one step behind.

 

We speak of the people who’ve come through our lives,

The lovers, the friends, and the lies.

We laugh at each other with brotherly ease,

While troubles we try to disguise.

 

I’ll tell you a story, you’ll give me a rhyme,

We drink and don’t question why.

I talk about tomorrow, but dream of yesterday,

Ain’t it funny how the years go by.

 

Cool, cool honey,

Never that far from my mind.

You’re the picture pristine,

Like a late morning dream,

And I’m always one step behind

 

The evening rolls along with each passing song,

The ace is drawn so we drink.

The cards stacked to heaven, the clock strikes eleven,

With each turn we push to the brink.

 

We laugh and we roar, till the rum is no more,

The spirits collectively sink.

So we wander to bed, the world spins in my head,

And the evening is gone in a blink.

 

Cool, cool honey,

Never that far from my mind.

You’re the picture pristine,

Like a late morning dream,

And I’m always one step behind.

 

For a moment, after I had finished there was silence and I thought I had just made a terrible mistake. Then I looked up from my paper and saw the woman in black start to clap, followed by the others. A surge of relief swept over me as I politely nodded before folding my poem several times and stuffing it in my back pocket. The other writers gave me some feedback, mostly positive and I felt an enormous weight lifted from me. I had done it, I had gotten through reading my poem aloud for the first time in a decade and didn’t fall apart. I was proud of myself for a change. The evening went on and I sat silently, listening to the others read their prompts. Apparently this week challenged them to write a piece of flash fiction (a story that cannot number more than 300 words) that included the phrase “they won’t be missed” into their piece. Then the woman in black, whom Silvia introduced as Nadia, began to read her piece. I perked right up. She spoke in a foreign accent, which may or may not have been French.

“I call this piece A Bad Batch.” Nadia began confidently.

“I thought these were supposed to be incinerated.” Maggie sneered through sips from her black coffee, suspiciously eyeing her colleague Maxwell as he placed the last box of Sweet Melissa’s sugar free gummy bears into his black monogramed duffle bag. “The FDA recalled them after all the projectile voiding and lawsuits.”

Maxwell straightened up and adjusted the smudged black rimmed glasses sitting upon his greasy nose. “Consider this my severance package,” He snapped back as he stormed through the brightly lit office and out to his battered Honda Civic, Maggie dropping the paper cup of burnt coffee and chasing after him.

“What do you mean severance package?” Maggie said in a panic as Maxwell threw open his trunk.

“You really have to start checking e-mails. We’ve been sacked, the whole damn department has been fired over this fiasco.”

“Fired? But it was one bad product!” Maggie futilely protested.

“Yes, a fifty million dollar mistake, somebody had to go and it wasn’t going to be the big executives. Welcome to corporate America.” Maxwell ruefully lamented as he slammed his trunk shut.

“But why take the gummy bears, what could you possible want them for?” Maggie asked.

“For all the masochists and juvenile boys out there, who will buy these up on the black market.” Maxwell smirked.

Maggie shook her head, “You really are the worst sort of person.”

Maxwell pondered a moment, “You want to go behind the dumpster and do some blow?”

“Yeah screw it, why not.” Maggie said as she surrendered to the stupidity and walked off to get cranked with the scoundrel Maxwell.

Meanwhile, two nightwatchmen were witnessing all this from the shadows of their smoke break. “They won’t be missed.” one said to the other as they went back inside to file their report of the theft.

When she finished I applauded loudly as the others gave a smattering of applause. Most of the other’s stories had been either tales of murder or overly dramatic. This woman came out of left field with a dark, abrupt, twisted comedy. It was marvelous.

“Thank you Nadia,” Silvia said before adding, ” as per usual you have such a unique voice and we’re grateful that you continue to share it with us.”

The rest of the evening was rather forgettable, though whenever I was growing weary of another’s flash fiction I would look around and, inevitably my eyes would meet Nadia’s and eventually we began exchanging covert, sarcastic looks. When the meeting was finally adjourned, members began getting up to converse with one another. I got a few handshakes and welcomes but they were fleeting. I looked over at Nadia, who by this time had gathered her purse and proceeded across the floor to me.

“I think I have been waiting for you Michael. I am Nadia.” she said as she extended her hand, which I lightly shook. Perhaps she was French Canadian? I didn’t want to be rude so I didn’t ask.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance Nadia,” I said, flashing a rare smile, “How long have you been waiting for me then? Apologies, didn’t realize I was tardy.”

“They are not for anything that could be construed as risqué. Their sense of humor is too Puritan for my liking, which is why I give them this story instead. I require freedom to tell bawdy tales and they always act so awkwardly. I want to free them, but I do not think they hear me. Do you hear me, Michael? Are we on a wavelength, you and I?”

“I think so,” I replied… wavelength? “I haven’t much use for a filter and, under normal circumstances I utilize language that would make a sailor blush. You’re not one of those prudes who postulates that one only swears when they can’t think of anything better to say, are you?

“Certainly not!” Nadia proclaimed, “I mean it is not every other word but, when used properly bad language can feel fucking great, no?”

“I concur wholeheartedly.” I said.

“Michael, I have a suspicion but do not want to speak out of turn. This poem you read, which I liked, I felt it was not just words but that you really felt them. Did you speak truth Michael?”

“Yes, if by that you mean was it autobiographical. I wrote that piece about a series of evenings my brother and I spent playing a drinking game before he left to fight in the Iraq War.”

“See, I knew you did! I knew you didn’t just write words. You write honestly, and that too is how I write, uninhibited and always authentic. There is no room for timidity and bashfulness in truth and art. Michael, if I give you my e-mail will you utilize it and not waste?”

“How so? Would you like me to send you bad jokes? Give you the cliff notes version of my life?”

“Not necessarily, though I place no limitations. You and I, we form our own literary organization of two. We speak only truth and pass no judgement on one another. I want you to write to me freely and with no inhibitions, and I will do the same. Can you accept this, Michael? Can you be free with me?”

“Why yes, yes I can.” I said with a grin, which she returned in kind. Nadia then had me write my e-mail on one of her business cards.

“I will write you soon with some instructions, to see if we are on the same wavelength. I think we are, but one can never be sure. Until next time Michael.”

“Bonsoir Nadia, I’ll look for your transmission amongst the stars then.” I said, which got her to flash one more smile before she vanished into the night.

Over the next couple of months Nadia and I established our own literary collective, a rogue outfit dedicated to no holds barred writing. We had but one rule, that only honest, uninhibited writing was permitted. All else was immaterial. Nadia went first, sending me a short story that postulated King Arthur wasn’t in love with Guinevere, but with Lancelot. And, after a lover’s quarrel, Lancelot slept with Guinevere out of revenge, leading to the downfall of Camelot. I was struck by her stylized yet frank depictions of sex and intimacy. She wrote with a dramatic, but never melodramatic, flair that I adored.

It took me a while to finish my piece. I’d forgotten that I had a habit of tearing everything apart and trashed two or three different ideas before deciding to lean on my love of history and churn out a grimy tale of murder and mayhem in late Victorian London. I used Jack The Ripper as an inspiration, but my ripper was a Jill, and she carved a bloody swath of revenge against the descendants of politicians she considered responsible for the Irish Famine. She would only be caught after trying to assassinate Queen Victoria’s grandson, the future King George V. My tale covered everything, from her lurid crimes and taunting of authorities, to her dramatic capture and botched hanging. After turning in a first draft that was only somewhat tame, Nadia told me this was a good start but encouraged me to free myself of any restraint and return only the most uninhibited tale to her. And so I did, no gruesome detail was omitted until one could read my story and feel the grime on their shoes, breathe in the fetid London air and have a front row seat to all the horror.

Nadia was much better pleased by this version, that I held nothing back and gave everything to her. And so it went, we continued to exchange salacious writing and come together every week at the ICNW meetings, where we would exchange inside jokes and try to one up each other with outrageous offerings for the group. One week, and with a straight face mind you, I read out a poem about the joys of flatulence. Another week, Nadia gleefully told the tale of a woman who took revenge on her gaslighting ex-boyfriend by breaking into his work van and peeing on the driver’s seat. A part of me is surprised that we haven’t been asked to leave the group yet. I like to think that the quality of our work, particularly Nadia’s, endears us to the other writers, even if they won’t admit it in public.

After the meetings we would go for long walks around town, where we would discuss philosophy, politics and what our interpretations of the meaning of life were. I told her my whole story, how my mother’s death when I was young left a scar that never fully healed, and a void that I could never fill. I told her how, in the summer of 2010, I felt like my whole life was collapsing around me and drove me to try and end it all. I then told her about abandoning writing and hiding all of my work away, of limping on with a piece of my soul missing and life losing meaning. For the record, I didn’t open myself up to Nadia all at once, but over the course of several walks. I was hesitant at first, having never really opened up to anybody about this. She encouraged me though, telling me that I must bring my truth out of darkness and into the light, and only then can there be any healing.

We continued our weekly walks, and it didn’t take long for me to realize that I was falling for Nadia. Naturally, this was the only subject I was afraid to broach with her. I feared that if I attempted to introduce romance to the equation that it would change our dynamic, which I loved so dearly. I didn’t want her to see me as just another man determined to get into her pants, I valued her so much more than that, and if she were to tell me that we could not have a physical relationship I would be fine with that, but my fear was that would make things awkward between us and I didn’t want to risk that. Besides, even if she was into me, my track record with women once we’d had sex was abysmal.

I cannot tell you exactly how Nadia felt, she’d have to do that herself. She wasn’t overly flirtatious or forward, though we did playfully touch one another. If there were signals she was sending out I was missing them, not surprising considering how clueless I am when it comes to reading body language. After what seemed like an endless holding pattern, something changed today. I was working on a poem for the next meeting. It was about the ending of my last relationship. I had talked about it at length to Nadia and she encouraged me to channel this into verse. But I was wholly and completely stuck. All the lines were written, but I felt the right words eluded the page and my mind. I was terribly frustrated so I e-mailed Nadia, who to my surprise, e-mailed me right back, inviting me to bring my poem to her house where she said she would get me unstuck. This was new, in all the time we’d been writing and philosophizing with one another we’d never invited each other over to visit. What could she mean by this?

I threw on a clean white t-shirt and a pair of khakis before grabbing my notebook and walking over to Nadia’s. While it was only a fifteen-minute walk, it was blazing hot and my forehead was dripping with sweat by the time I got there. I mopped my brow before knocking on the door. Nadia answered in a wide white tank top, thin miniskirt and bare feet. I noticed that she was not wearing a bra either, but I made a concerted effort not to stare.

“Hello Michael,” she said as we hugged, “Come in, yes, please make yourself comfortable in the living room. I am just finishing making something in the kitchen and will be with you shortly.”

“It smells great Nadia. What are you concocting?” I said as I went to sit in her elegantly appointed chase lounge.

“No no, all will be revealed in time. You sit here, and don’t peek. I will catch you if you peek.” she teased before walking back to the kitchen.

Whatever she is making smells rich and sweet and fills the air with hunger. I do my best to content myself on the lounge, opening my notebook and continuing to blindly grasp around the recesses of my mind for the right words, occasionally distracted by the piano music of Franz Liszt, floating in the air all around me, and just how warm and inviting this space felt. I am still pondering away when Nadia comes back into the living room. She is holding a tray with two small saucepans and what appears to be chocolates between them. She places the tray down on a table but a few of the chocolates fall to the ground. I start to stand up to help but Nadia motions that I stay seated. She casts a quick glance back at me before bending over to pick them up. She does so slowly, deliberately, and like the curtain raising in the theater Nadia shows me definitively that she is wearing no underwear. I stop breathing. My mouth hangs open, and while my body may be frozen, my blood most certainly is not.

After having picked up the chocolates and placed most of them back on the tray she takes one in her hand and comes over to me, gently lowering herself into my lap. We look into each other’s eyes before she begins speaking.

“Let us talk Michael, you and I, and we will come to an understanding. I take it by what I feel growing in your pants that these attentions are not unwanted, this is true yes?

“You are correct madame.” I reply, to which she flashes a smile.

“Good, then I was not mistaken. Michael, I want our bodies to intertwine, and for your soul to mix with my soul until it is indistinguishably our soul. But before that can happen, we must have an honest and open exchange. Is this acceptable Michael?”

“Yes it is Nadia.”

“I must say that I have absolutely no use for monogamy. It is unnatural. I will never belong to anyone, nor will I ever demand that another belong to me. Love, you see, must be free love. It must always be free to be given wherever it is found. All my relationships are very open relationships, everything is fluid and there are no strings. You see Michael, this life, it is all an illusion. So much is fake and we never see the true picture. The TV is just a bunch of pixels on a screen. Your computer and internet are just a bunch of codes, programs and algorithms. Even you and I, our bodies are merely a collection of atoms and molecules. This vast universe, always moving, is all an illusion. Are we transmitting on the same frequency? Tell me Michael.”

“Yes,” I reply, still barely breathing, “We are on the same wavelength.”

“I feel we are too.” Nadia said with a pause and a bite of her lower lip before continuing, “I adore you Michael, I want to give you all you desire. I want our flesh to melt and our juices flow until we collapse with exhaustion, unable to stand. Is this what you want Michael?”

“It is. I… I’m in love with you Nadia.”

“And I love you, Michael. But our love is like sand upon the shore, hold it too tight and it will slip from your fingers and be lost. Does this make sense?”

“Yes it does, and you need not worry about me. All spirits should be free spirits. I will never try to possess you or lay claim to you.”

“Our souls are becoming one, I feel it Michael. And you, my dear can be who want to be and with whomever you desire. There is never judgement from me. All I will ever ask is that, when we are together we’ll be open and honest always. Our souls will commune with one another, and nothing is inhibited or held back”

Nadia then takes a Merci chocolate in her hand and places it between her lips. She asks me if I wouldn’t like a nibble. I move my face toward hers and place my mouth over the tip and bite into the chocolate. Nadia then takes a nibble and asks me if I wouldn’t like another. We continue to nibble until there is no chocolate between us, our noses rub together, and our lips press against one another. We hold for a breathless moment before I kiss her soft lower lip. She kisses me back. We kiss lightly at first, gently pecking before we begin to kiss deeply, our tongues twirling and dancing around one another’s mouths.

“I feel it Michael, yes I feel it.” Nadia says before climbing off of me and going over to the saucepans and removing the lids. One is filled with melted chocolate and the other with what appears to be raspberry sauce. She bids me to come over as she places her delicate fingers in the chocolate. She tells me to open my mouth and she spreads the chocolate along my lips and covers my tongue. She then bids that I take the raspberry and do the same to her. I dip my fingers in the still warm raspberry and slowly spread it across her soft lips and all around her tongue. When this is done, she guides my hands to her waist, and we pull each other close before mixing our ingredients.

Nadia and I make love right there on her carpet, and rug burns aside it is wonderful and warm. Once we both finish, brows matted with sweat, bodies glistening in the sun that peaked in through the window, I lower my lips to Nadia’s and kiss her tenderly.

“I love you Nadia.” I say between breaths.

“I love you, Michael” she says as we continue to gently but deeply kiss.

No longer able to remain upright I lower myself to the floor next to her. I am utterly exhausted but deliriously happy as we both lay on our sides and press our bodies together, and it is impossible to tell one body begins and the other ends.

“I am happy Michael, are you happy?”

“Nadia, I can honestly and freely inform you that I have never been this happy in my life.” I say as I tenderly give her a peck on the lips.

“I feel our souls have come together, yours and mine. Our souls are united, and our bodies are free. Michael, can you tell me that we will always be open and honest with one another?”

“We will keep nothing from each other, and our bodies, minds and souls will never be kept apart.” I say.

“And we will be free always and there will never be any judgement? We will accept and love each other with no strings or hesitations, and never feel afraid to share what is in our hearts and minds?”

“You will never have any judgement from me. I accept and love and adore you as you come, however you choose to come and whenever you choose to come. You are safe always with me, but you are free as well to be whatever you want, wherever you want. Our love will know no distance or binds. It is eternal, we are stardust from now until there is no more time or space.”

“We are on the same frequency.” Nadia says as she buries her head on my shoulder and we hold each close.

The sun burns in the sky, the earth moves beneath us, but it feels like time has stopped. I bury my head in Nadia’s fragrant hair. I can honestly say I have no idea what is going to happen from here, I’d never conceived of being in an open relationship, and whether it was particularly wise to have unprotected sex like that. Usually thoughts like this and the uncertain future filled me with anxiety, but not today. I am alive again, come what may I am alive again.