Sun dissolving into water
Heat dissolving into warmth
Passion dissolving into love
Aiden on his back, naked and lost in the never never, one arm stretched out towards the rock, the other wristed across his eyes.
Matt equally exposed, curved sideways observing, eyes caressing, sweeping head to toe, fingers poised to go walkabout the other way.
The story of their earlier love-making a shadowed third figure, another country, lying between them on the deserted beach.
Mountain ranges formed by toes seeking traction. Deep, smooth, curved basins below flattened plateaus; the result of pressed down knees and straining upwards quads. The glimpse of a double impression below a deeper gorge that came from a willingly trapped erection. Then lighter, wider, softer waves in the sand made and remade over and over by chest muscles swimming against the rising tide within and above. Harder sweeping ridges from arms praying for release, sinkholes created from moaned together fists. Then the final jagged impression of masked fulfillment, orgasm bitten roundly at it's peak.
The stolen particles that left his other self remain pressed tight against Aiden's still flushed skin. Sandpaper stripes broken up by friction, by sweat and by rivulets of fulfillment. Stories suspended in the dreamtime, waiting for patterns to be etched, their totem to be revealed.
Matt's calloused fingertips, already holding grains of sand between their memories of yesterday and tomorrow, hover and start their travelling trail. Inching slowly, but purposefully, leaving messages in their wake.
Barely brushing, grinding like against like. A sandstorm of sensation spiralling outwards from reddened revered rock.
Fingers flatten and feather out, perspiring palms press. Bristles roll into and mix the once written secrets back and forth, losing them from sight but never from feeling.
A deep low moan hums across the expanse, causing the last free sand to dance in acquiescence, calling out, needing rescue and release. A cry in the wilderness, a cry in the dark.
Trapped in the bush, fires raging, liquid heat swallowed up then spread out to tongue a path upwards until finally mouths meet, sharing and revelling in gritty truths.
Moonlight and water calling their names, but not yet, not yet.
Not before more spirits are left behind in the sand.
Left behind and waiting.
Waiting for the wind to carry them round the world, and back.
Back to the beginning, back to the Maiden Dreaming.