The escalating sounds punctuated the night with fervor, as if to negate all silences that ever were, as if to deny that loneliness could ever happen again. The piston pounding of twin hearts beat relentlessly in time with each other, redefining the sound of love with each beat; denying that hate or anger or sorrow could find purchase within their flesh. Flesh flushed from rosy to red to burning, a flame that scalded the darkness and held it at bay; a hound called to heel by some greater master. And it obeyed, though reluctantly. Shadows of that reluctance danced over features, between spaces and through open orifices greedily, shouting it's defiance and pride until the end. Not that it was noticed.
Limbs became hopelessly entwined in those moments, a Celtic Knot of hope. They extended their ambitions, their visions and their compassion to each other in the form of fingers and hands and arms and legs and so much more, remembering in their most sacred act the unity from before body, before time and before man's collective consciousness. They were transcending. Hair was splayed, tangled, devoured by it's counterpart becoming rapidly, irretrievably, immersed in the other though not gripping; the hair need not embrace as the flesh did, the mere contact, the slide of silk against silk, was enough to sate it's hunger. Neither was that noticed.
