By the brook in the dark of night, we wash the soil from our hands and spit blood from our mouths. It mixes with the cold running water so that we are with nature again, and when we kiss, we taste birth and death and wine and all those dreams they told us not to dream. When she spreads herself for me, the animals watch in secret as I get on all fours and speak to her in a language my childhood self knew all too well. When I place my lips on her sex, I’m reminded of the biscuit tin in the kitchen of my grandparent’s old house. It used to rest atop their pantry, and whenever I opened it, it was full of all kinds of delicious treats from chocolate bourbons to shortbread to Jammie Dodgers to Waggon Wheels. Especially the strawberry ones. I would eat those things all day long if I could, and as I eat her until it’s time to fall asleep, the bliss of breathing in my childish kicks is almost overwhelming. There are crickets and grasshoppers buzzing in my ear, and as I wriggle my tongue, so she gasps and digs her fingers back into the damp earth. Taking a bite out of her as she looks up to the moon, she leans back upon a blanket of leaves and cries. They aren’t tears of sadness, though, for she just feels alive, and the sight of that cold rock hanging there reminds her that she is as real as she needs to be. For how long is anyone’s guess, but in this bubble of us, she and I are atoms made aware of themselves, and not only that but atoms that feel and know love. When we’re done, we smoke a few cigarettes, and while she’s splashing water between her legs, I’m lost in my head thinking about my days in junior school, and in particular, the shed in the playing field that housed all the sports equipment. We all thought it was haunted, and every lunch time, we would peer through the cracks in the wooden doors hoping to catch a glimpse of some ghost that would prove the magic we believed in was really there.