from my novel Acts of Empathy

We made love on that huge bed in the innocent, muted, white morning light; in the sylph garden amid applauding flowers on motionless turquoise afternoons; on those soft lounges before a conflagration of sunsets and in the hushed scarlet of descending twilight; on the veranda watched by smiling blue stars and white porcelain moons; in the shower - one undine stooping in the cascading water and the other clutching the shower curtain until I tore it down in a deluge of watery passion; in every chair and sofa; atop the piano to a crescendo of chromatic screams; in the kitchen on the counter top amid the aroma of tangy herbs; contortively crunched into the nook; sitting on the bar flavouring ourselves with Grand Marnier liqueur. We initiated every room in the house with a delightful, instantly recoverable, erotic memory. Spent effusive days and nights intoxicated with the elixir of each other.
It was the perfect coalescence of two wanton insatiable beings rising through the physical world into the cerebral purity of psychic sensualism. It was the clarity of love.


© RC Westerholm