An Eternal Rhythm

There is a rhythm to this longing,

a pulse beneath the silence,

where thought and energy collide,

where the unsaid hums electric between us.

And a melody of ecstatic fanfare

and quiet smoldering

emerges from orange sacral wisdom.

A flicker, a blaze—

born not of need, but of knowing,

where desire is not absence,

but the fullness of what already is.

A desire ripe like fresh peaches,

tender, supple, wet, abundant,

Dripping with the weight of its own sweetness,

heavy with the promise of surrender,

not taken, not stolen—

but offered, freely, reverently, whole.

And it’s in that wholeness

the deepest and fullest expression is made manifest,

flowing freely like rapid river water

caressing and careening towards a waterfall.

Cascading, surrendering to the pull of gravity’s embrace,

not fearing the fall, but reveling in it—

the rush, the plunge, the moment where motion becomes flight.

No hesitation. Only trust. Only release.

And it’s a release of a thousand stars,

holding light immemorial

and then exploding gloriously into a black void.

A void that is not absence, but infinite becoming,

where darkness is not the end, but the womb—

cradling creation, whispering, Begin again.

For even in the silence, we are still burning.

An eternal flame, the yet and not yet of creation.

A flicker in the unseen,

a pulse in the vastness,

where time folds in on itself—

not past, not future, only now.

And in this now, we are everything.

And yet nothing.

And we dance in this tango

of becoming and unbecoming,

of creation and destruction,

back and forth, rhythmically up and down,

cosmically yin and yang.

Swirling in the tension of opposites,

where loss is birth and fire is renewal,

where the inhale cradles the exhale—

and in the space between, we dissolve.

Not separate. Not two.

But the rhythm itself.