The Communion of Sighs

There was a moment without the sound of trumpets or a shining light, but with only silence and darkness and a cool mist felt more than seen. I was eighteen, my heart pounding wildly within me like a fist. Expectation hung like a cry in the night, and your eyes shone like the corona of a comet. There was an instant . . . without words, but with a deeper communion, as clothing first, then inhibitions fell; liquidly our lips met —feverish, wet— forgotten, the tales of heaven and hell, in the immediacy of our fumbling union . . . when the rest of the world became distant. Then the only light was the moon on the rise, and the only sound, the communion of sighs. Published by Grassroots Poetry and Poetry Webring