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We lay, intercession, relaxed without exhaustion. An intimate moment, one of a series, manufactured through the exchange of estrogen and testosterone.

She’s pawing my chest delicately.

“You know what caught me?”

“Pray tell.”

“You’re so … present.”

A meek “thank you” escapes my lips as I’m jerked into introspection, inward, reflection upon reflection. Do I really walk this line? The duality of being, ensconced in the moment, of just enjoying the today and the now and this, and still able to maintain cognizance of cause and effect, of Hume, of the undefined potential? I smile, genuinely, wondering if this line can only be walked when internalized, that perhaps I have done this tonight, this once, and the rest of the time the effort makes it pride, necessary practice.

I’m drowsy now, starting to drift off, looking down at the Amazon from one of those low-flying helicopters skimming the treetops, the rain-forest a lush journey and not a challenge, but that which is and was a part of me that retains it’s significance because it is, not was or will be, not danger and poison and wet, oh the wet, and the green, the midori – in Japanese green is the only color that’s a noun – fuck, the green and the life – and I’m gone, sojourning in the rain-forest, a brief recollection pulling my coattails, begging sage advice from the pauper: that which you are is a result of that which you were, but that which you can be is not bounded by the past.

My lips find hers again while I transfer, kinesthetically, my moment: Such a compliment cannot be requested, only received, and I thank you.

I couldn’t ask for anything more penetrating.