Lub-dub. Two.

Lub-dub. Three.

…

A racing kicking is your response to me inside the womb of your heart. A kicking of us growing in there, growing yet through the multi-dimensionality of things like this, not gaining in size or maturing. Just growing. Growing deeper, perhaps. But up or down or in or out has no meaning; only intensity.

I slide my fingers into your mouth, deeper and deeper, in rhythm with your breathing. And I find my breathing matched to yours. How wonderfully intimate it is to be embraced like this, to breach your physical boundary like this, to go from without to within, from the stark coldness outside to the warm, moist softness inside. The deeper I go, the more you open up, and the deeper I go, the wetter your tears become.

When will this end?

Never, I hope.