His tongue met her tongue. This is what tongues were for. His hands clenched her hair. This is what his hands were for. Her mouth opened wide to him. This is what mouths were for. Her hands reached under his shirt, his warmth, his firm, fleshly warmth. This is what her hands were for. He undid her blouse, found her niña breasts, her erect nipples, each one, in his warm, wet, sucking mouth. This is what breasts were for. She licked his dark, crescent moon nipples, his head thrown back, moaning. This is what dark, crescent moons were for. His fingers grazed her body like a blind man, finding the hot wetness of her orchid. This is what fingers were for. He entered her blindly, weeping with dumb joy, and they danced with creation, they danced. This is what creation was for. This dance.
Nothing separated them. In this moment. Each moment. Was complete. They lacked nothing. In this naked vulnerability. They lacked. Nothing. In this. Moment. Naked. Vulnerable. This is. What freedom. Is for.
[...] S/he lacked nothing. In this. Moment. This is what freedom is for
Alma Luz Villanueva, Song of the Golden Scorpion