I imagine meeting you not beneath the stars, but in spite of them, as if the sky had nothing to offer but witness, and even that we refuse. The trees don't speak, they creak under the weight of what we're about to do, old wood groaning like it remembers every other time two bodies tried to eat each other alive and call it love.
You wouldn't walk to me. You'd come.. like a wave knowing exactly which shore it was made to break against. No word. No silence either just the wet pull of your breath, the catch in your throat, the sound of your foot pressing moss into earth like you're already pinning me down from ten feet away.
And when your mouth found mine? Not a kiss. A collision. Teeth first, because politeness died somewhere between your ribs and mine. Tongue like a question that doesn't want an answer.. only more tongue, more bite, more of that raw gasp I'd pull from you like a fish from water, flopping and desperate and beautiful. Your lips would be bruised before we even started, and I'd taste the blood like a promise.
Your hands wouldn't wander. They'd hunt. Palm flat against my throat just to feel the vibration of my moan before I let it out. Fingers dragging down my spine like you're scoring flesh for future reference. Nails raking my hips, my thighs, that soft hollow behind my knee..
everywhere a body can be opened. Not to remember me. To write yourself into me, so deep that later, alone, I'd still feel the ghost of your grip.
Beneath those trees..
forget the trees, they're just witnesses we'll ignore, the wind would carry our sounds: my choked half-word, your guttural yes, the wet rhythm of bodies learning each other's dialects of hunger. Love wouldn't be elemental then. It would be chemical, the burn of friction, the salt of skin, the animal scent rising from both of us like smoke from a fire we didn't start but can't stop feeding.
We would not belong to eternity. Eternity could watch.
We would belong to the act the slick slide, the bitten shoulder, the hand in my hair pulling hard enough to make my eyes water and my spine arch and my mouth fall open on a sound I've never made before. We'd fuck like we were trying to remember a past life through our pelvises. Like the world ended an hour ago and nobody told us, so we're making our own apocalypse, hip to hip, breath to breath, sweat to sweat.
And when it was over if it was ever over we'd lie there, not speaking, not sleeping, just panting into the dark like two animals who briefly forgot they were human. And I'd feel your heartbeat through your back, or maybe mine through my chest, or maybe neither, just that shared thrum of we did this, we survived this, we are still burning.
And the trees? They'd remember.
But they'd never tell.
-Lina del Sol