By E.S. Wynn
The touch of life, of rain that lingers on your fingers as we make love in the ruins of civilization is like a sweet promise running across my cheeks. You breathe my name, and in your breath I taste flowers, jasmine and lotus. Sweat mixes with dust, and as we move, the earth embraces us, feeds us with her life, her touch. Nature reacts in turn, and suddenly the ruins, the dust and the desert of humanity’s folly falls away, swallowed into a sea of rainwet green. Reality contracts as we slip into the in-between together, and then we are stars, points of light riding the wash of the ether deeper and deeper into the womb of creation– one soul, one star, one light bringing life back into the dead world that those who lived before have left us.
- - -
When humanity finally goes the way of the dinosaurs, it will be the posthumans, Homo Superior, who will make love on the ruins of their fallen ancestors.
Labels: Earl S. Wynn