Inside. Outside.

Outisde

There is nothing more romantic than snuggling up with a loved one to watch a film.

There is the comfort of another human by your side, along with the prospect of a brief burst of sweet escapism.

And as the movie unfolds, so the two joys twine and blossom as one: delight in the magic of the motion picture itself, the playing out of life, and delight in cupping love against your body.

Occasionally, the two of you will laugh at the same time at a joke onscreen, and that only sweetens the experience further. We enjoy more the sharing of joy than the source of the joy itself. We like to hear our loved one laugh, to know that he or she is happy. That is love: to be happy, because they are happy.

Soon, it culminates in a bittersweet, lovely ending, that leaves a black but ripe ache in your human heart. To soothe the bruise, the bruise that is like a black-hole wound, empty, empty, you turn to your loved one. Arms embrace; necks lower to allow heads to alight upon shoulders, safe as swans nestled in each others’ nests.

Such a flourishing of gorgeous feeling. It tastes like a soft, jeweled fruit. It feels like thousand rains and a thousand more safe cozy rooms and crackling fires. It is the pressing of hand against hand, so they warm each other and warm the hearts, even when the body is cold. It is quiet ecstasy. It is the creating of womb atmosphere. Two squirrels, curled up against each other, in the hollow of a tree, while lightning slashes at the forest without.

But from the outside, you are just two flesh bodies occupying a close space, with the yellow-green flashing glow of the television illuminating your faces. Your smiles are black shadows, secret. Hands clutch beneath the blankets, unseen. And then someone turns out a light, plunging the room into darkness.

So it is.

Roiling storms on the inside.

All is quiet without.

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