Old Love.


old love

I reach to touch your cheek. It is withered like mine, for it has travelled many journeys, walked beneath many suns, loved beneath many moons. It has no more the outer blossom it once had, but “outer blossom” no longer concerns me. I know within lies a fountain of youth. I glimpse it in your gaze. I want to bathe in those eyes, to let the love I find there wash away the hurts, the compromises of this world. I’m drawn deep within. I feel you enter into me. Not as in youth a mere uniting of bodies. We need not undress, for we see each other’s naked beauty through the eyes. Though fingers trace remembered patterns it is in the spirit we touch, embrace, the physical a mere extension of what flows between us.

No longer the “young stud” your hands elicit joy from me as the virtuoso upon a beloved  old violin. You draw music from my soul with your touch. I do not see the flesh that sags, the wriggles at the brow. My eyes are drawn by something deep within. Like matured wine I taste you, no longer in rapid gulps but in small sips, savouring the flavour. We are one, tasting exquisite pleasure through eye, and touch and soul. With you the flower of youth blossoms once more. For we do not love as others but together enter in to another world. We close the door behind us as we lay aside our aging bodies and, cleansed by love, become young, unwrapping that secret kernel that lays beneath.

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