I discovered electricity when I touched you.

When the tingle in my skin echoed with the one in yours.
When sparks flew off our tongues
and created electric arcs.

When the jigsaw of your back fit into my arms.

I discovered electricity
when our bodies fused into each other,
and not a single ray of light got through to the other side.

When fingers invented a secret language seen by everyone,
the walkers in the park,
the commuters on the bus,
the joggers taking in the morning sea breeze
while we stared at the concrete tetrapods the city had poured on the shore
to prevent itself from drowning.

When bodies became conduits to transfer passion.

When we navigated each other maps,
when we saw that the bend in the road
did not go hurtling down.

I discovered electricity
when we scraped the bottom of our souls,
unearthing stories buried under years of wilful forgetting,
and offered it to the other,
unedited, unchiseled.
Not a word out of place.

I discovered electricity
when I had deciphered the last symbol in your breath,
when we crashed into each other, wave after wave,
when we left fingerprints on each other,
not caring to wipe our presence from the scene of the crime.

I am only learning to harness all that I have discovered.


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