Intimacy is the flirtation, it is the stimulation, it is the skin sensation, the exploration, the titillation, the penetration. It is your eyes, dilation, our hands, temptation, my body, vibration. No complications.
Intimacy is Coltrane playing over and over, while blowing thick white clouds towards the ceiling. It’s no inhibition, no judgment. It is time moving ever so slowly. It is reading the palm of your hands, while you whisper corny shit in my ear.
Intimacy is you knowing me better than I know myself. It’s telling me you miss me with just your eyes. It’s song dedications on the radio. Intimacy is you loving me from my head down to my feet with everything in between. It is telepathic conversations beyond explanation.
It is cooking your breakfast in your oversized shirt. It’s falling in love while watching you work. Intimacy is seeing me in my truth. It is seeing you in yours.
Intimacy is touching me in places on my body from miles away.
It is listening to your dreams over the phone. It is smelling your cologne on my clothes.
Intimacy is undressing me with just your eyes. It is wading for you til I turn blue. It is making a trail along the curves of my body with just your lips. And me returning the favor.
Intimacy is telling me what I want to hear and meaning it. It is just laying in bed, fully clothed. It is knowing when you are mad, even when you deny it. It is listening to your heart beat as I fall asleep.
Intimacy is breathing in unison. It is your sweat on my body. It is my moans echoing beyond reach. It is the sweating, the panting, the deep breathing, the scratching, the pulling, the grabbing, the pinning, the biting, the moaning, the pleading, the begging, the–that thing you just did. Yeah, I really like that thing you just did. It is purring like a kitten, it is yearning for more. Intimacy is challenging each other to do it again.