There is a stillness and silence to the world - the calm before the storm. Fire-coloured eyes lock and advocate a mutual understanding that we would polarize our lips and have them become magnets. Fingers initiate pilgrimage, a cartographic obsession driving nothing short of complete exploration. Layers of wrappings shift to reveal further ground to cover and, with the delicate care of a librarian handling a first edition, are removed entirely.
Goosebumps are a poor description - our skin blisters without pain, hair stands electric, screaming for freedom and escape from the flesh.
Sparse clouds in the night sky serve as a wordless marquee for a VIP performance intended only for the crickets, and the moon lay static - illuminated glass on deepest black satin waiting to be cracked. Ice begging to be broken so as to include all creation in our discourse.
Such is the music of synapse - that the occupation of one mouth can trigger the other to create a lone harmony with the power of both voices.
Such is the music of synapse - to be deafened by the crush of twitching thighs, to accept in the moment that hearing will never be as important as this - and to invite a further pressure.
Such is the poetry of the moment - to have lost all definition of "I" and "You" and to accept eternal that "we" "this" "us" is all that has ever existed.
It is in these moments that we are all artists - fingernails become paintbrushes on sweat-soaked canvas - voices sing freeform to a steadily intensifying rythm and percussion - and yes, we are acting - but we are acting like ourselves at last.
In song, we meet in reverent harmonies; our voices flow and crash, intertwining and growing in tandem like accelerated vines springing forth from our very throats with a power and pace that would convince us we had altered the axis of the planet.
The world is lost to consequence - the salt sting of sweat in our eyes as distant as the voice of a sparrow calling to God through a hurricane. The burn in our muscles a cool comfort compared to the inferno we encompass as one.
Such is the music of synapse - that one face buried in the crook where neck meets shoulder is, despite the tumult and torrent of urgent motion, somehow able to make eye contact.
Such is the music of synapse - to rise and build in a simultaneous vocal performance and deliver a sudden crescendo strong enough to drown out the entirety of the world's symphonies.
Such is the poetry of the moment - To succumb to the finality of exhaustion and collapse, breathless, synchronized, depleted - and to accept the whisper of the wind as nature's applause.