You are an erotic being. You will always be an erotic being.
Even before you took the form of your thighs, your lips, the inner arc of your elbow, you were the erotic. Yes, that dancing iridescent purple flash above the lovers your parents once were is and always will be you.
This power cannot leave you. Even when your hands are wrinkled and your knees achey, and you cannot remember the last time you were kissed in that deep, wet way you once ached for, the erotic will wrap a blanket around your shoulders and stroke your thinning hair.
Don’t weep for it then. Go on and live here while you still live. Be the one who dreams of bodies to touch. Of bodies touching your body. Be the one who longs to pull at another’s skin, to drag fingers through hair, to tenderly stroke the tenderest places. Or dream none of these things, and know that even your resistance follows this magnetic pull.
No matter how you give, give freely. Undress in the moonlight and walk toward that shimmering lake you have secretly always wanted to wade in. Feel her waters licking you, beckoning you, filling you. Let her show you that the parts of you which you call holes are the places where you are most whole.
Be generous. Be hungry. Seek her for more than a moment’s pleasure. She, in return, will fill your throat with wise words. She will caress your hands with the salve of purpose. She will open your legs and catch the birth of whatever kind of creation you call yours.
And then, my sweet erotic thing, you will know what it means to come home to yourself.
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