WL dripping-stream

stream

I love water lilies and hamadryads with equal sensitivity. This was all the second page said. With a go next and a go previous button carved out of water.

The next page was a stream of consciousness piece, in an excruciatingly small bright blue font on a dark purple background. Amy's eyes glazed over and, printing the page out, she got up for a cup of hot chocolate. Glanced over at Yuki--the covers barely showed a slight rise over her great-grandmother's thin body. Amy waited a while until she saw the covers breathing delicately, taking in barely enough oxygen to keep a butterfly's wings alive. Then she settled in to read the page by the light of the monitor.

I want to hold you to stroke your body slowly, touching every cell with my tongue to know the slight variations in taste from the top of your arms through to your belly and below with your salt blood merging with mine mingling and commingling until there is no distinction between your skin and mine, between your arms and mine, between your legs and mine, between your atoms and mine until there is no more you and no more me but a thing greater than we a beautiful sensual sexual wonderment at the feelings that are beyond and above us exploring the heavens and sliding down supernovas and fishing our brains out of black holes when the explosions of ecstasy are finished.

There was more. But Amy told herself she didn't want to chance waking Yuki, and would read the rest later. Amy knew that she was lying to herself.

drops fall / into the swirling/ stream/ their sides dissolving /into each other/ each rolls off / a thin / oak branch.

the word is / the sound / of water / dripping from/ ancient symbols / tiny particles / of merging / realities