Having Never Met

We enter the dark.
The warm.  
This sacrament of silence,  
but for the rhythmic slurping of flesh  
pressed together in hunger for the other.  
 
Our skins are foreign,  
unknown to our past, yet  
pressing now with frantic urgency,
we strive toward an uncertain future.
 
Each of us lost in the other.
 
Incense wafts up from our merging.
Our noses touch and smell in unison, sharing the same air.
The heat, the silky touch, prove too much, but not enough.  
Ears are ticked by the muffled moans of pleasure,
in the floodtides of our coming.
We share all, but not all.
 
Limp now in the fleshy wet caress of separate selves,  
the objects of our lust still shine with beauty,  
but our minds hover at a distance,  
surrounded by the eyes of family, past loves,  
all looking on in grief.
 
We kiss, but do not speak.  
We part,  
never  
having met.