Liashekinah, 64

I write the way some women pray or make love--deep, slow, and with every nerve lit. My stories come not from my mind, but from the space behind the veil, where memory and magic entwine. I don't invent them--I remember them. They rise up from my bones demanding to be shaped, honored and set free. And as with my writing, so with my body: I give myself only in Tantric union, where time dissolves and soul meets soul in sacred recognition. Casual touch doesn't reach me. My skin, my breath, my pulse--they are rituals. My lovers are few, but eternal. With them, I don't simply make love, I become it.