HIM

I would not call myself a pious man.  In fact I have, on several occasions, contested the notion of a higher power.  However, a very simple connection occurred to me as my feet carried me closer to home this evening.  What of love?  True unconditional love.  Quite simply, the extent of loves power is such that it exceeds the parameters of what can be constructed by man.  Such a divine thing must be the creation of a divine being.  This is not speculation as love has been discussed by the great thinkers of every generation.  It is widely accepted as having an empirical value.  Many have attempted to create definition, in verse and in prose.  No one who has felt it will even begin to deny the totality of its effect.  The things that love will make you do are a testament to its undying unwavering force.  The magnitude of your devotion to it displays how humble a servant we are all capable of being.  Its force fills every pore in your body. Man has neither the understanding nor capacity to even replicate let alone create an energy of that intense complexity.  Such a thing is the advent of an architect higher in thought and deeper in emotion than we as humans have the ability to fathom.  Love, therefore, is proof that God exists.

 Ergo she is the greatest proof that there is a God. 

Notch on a Wall

There is no place for humanity in war, there is no place for war in humanity.  If, as a nation or dictator, you have a requirement that a war be fought by any human in your kingdom, without you yourself engaging in the very perils of said conflict, all rights to prescribe morality ergo are omitted.  War is not for man it is for the cannibals.  When the victor of the game played is decided by which side brings more death upon the other we create an existence outside of the parameters of civilization.  To affix rules to such a scenario is contemptuous and often only done so by those who themselves would never dare engage in such acts as the intentional mutilation of another human being.  There is no civilized way to remove the soul from a thinking, feeling, living, loving, breathing thing regardless how strict the rules of engagement.  

Cast away the pretentious nature of so called civilities and send those cannibals to feast, cease with the spurious concept of a noble conflict or take direct opposition to its very existence.  But do not tell the killing man how to kill, for he is the one who swims in the ocean of those decisions while stones cast from those upon the shore.  Beyond all else it is well known at this stage in history that when you make a cannibal of man he will never again return to the fruit of the earth for sustenance.  Externally and internally cast out to roam among the others whose disposition is taboo to discuss.  The act of or assignment of the killing of one man for the sake of anything other than direct personal protection is, as such, the homicide of all of humanity.  If we are marked to fight let us shed the constraints of such rules and let the battle commence.  If we are to mitigate the act of mutilation let us be done with war and all the hell it creates. 

Warrior

The last time that I had my nose broken was in an MMA bout in Alabama.  After securing a very deep triangle hold on my competitor he stacked me up and released one final last ditch effort to get me to release his neck from between my legs.   The back of my head was the only part of my body in contact with the mat as he came down on the center of my face with his 4oz glove.  It was the kind of hit you take from a mule if you have the misfortune of startling them from behind.  I felt my nose explode and the coup contrecoup action occurred as my brain bounced to the back of my skull.  It occurred to me with startling clarity that if I release this man he would repeat that violent action toward me and I was not sure in that moment if I would survive another shot such as that.   A wave of relief washed over me as his hand tapped my leg three times.

As quickly as the fight began it was over.  I stood victorious in front of the crowd.  My coaches, teammates and friends all erupted in jubilee.  Back in the dressing room my hands shook uncontrollably as the professional tape job was cut away.  Andy, the gentlemen who just moments before shattered my money maker stepped into my warm up area looking pretty unscathed and extends his hand.  He congratulated me on my victory and we exchanged pleasantries about training until a friend handed me a frosty cold adult libation.  I didn't pay for a drink all night after that. 

During my third combat deployment as a Ranger I have to estimate that our platoon did somewhere close to 100 direct action raids.  It wasn't abnormal to hit two or three objectives in a single night.  One evening that was no different from the rest, I recall a very large Iraqi man charging at the squad that I was attached to as we entered the front door.  According to the rules of engagement we could have shot him but no one did.  Although the man presented himself as a threat he didn't have a weapon in his hand.  I struck that man once, hard, right in the middle of his face.  My friends unceremoniously flowed passed him as if he was as inanimate as a coffee table.  The threat had been controlled.  Those same exact men that erupted in celebration just months before when they were watching me in that cage stepped over the bleeding man to gain access to the back room of the house in case their happened to be additional threats. 

I was sitting at a football game a week ago when these two distinct memories came to surface.  Someone described one of the players as a "Warrior” and I couldn't help but find that designation inaccurate.  While I respect the athleticism and sacrifice of football players, and professional athletes in general, these individuals are not warriors.  Their intent is crowd appeal and approval.  They are entertainers.  They are idolized for their feats and are rewarded with fame, accolades and Escalades.  They sacrifice themselves for self gain.   These men are gladiators.  These men occupy arenas for the purposes of entertaining the masses.  I myself have occupied those arenas, sacrificing myself for the entertainment of those in attendance.  Yet even in the most tumultuous of athletic pursuits and endeavors I had not earned the title of "Warrior"

A Warrior is a quite professional, one that also sacrifices his body, his youth and his mental health but not for applause or recognition.  He commits himself to his craft and dedicates his life to a cause that few will ever understand and even fewer still will ever see.  He walks until his feet are bloody stumps hoping those dear to him will never experience the noose of tyranny. He voluntarily deploys himself to the most austere environments in the world and repeatedly does the dirty work of his nation.  Decisions that would take most weeks to make he decisively executes before his next inhalation.  He holds the life of those around him in the distal phalanges of a single finger.  He flows silently into the homes of the world’s most dangerous men with the autonomy to take their lives.  He has no concern of who feeds upon his cost, and his victories will never be celebrated in a packed stadium.   And after the battle is over and the smell of war has left his nares the memories of his actions will be carried like cinder blocks upon his back.  He will continue to shoulder more than his share of the task, without ceremony.  This man is a warrior.  This man is the reason we can sit and enjoy the displays of the gladiator
.

The lion

To state it simply, there are few lions. There are many sheep, fewer wolves and even fewer sheep dogs yet the lion has become an endangered species. The value of the once revered hunter in the times of ancient Greece has corroded and dissipated under the guise of our so-called civilized nature. The lion does not guard the sheep and should not be thanked for doing so. The sad state of our society is one that has not the ability to distinguish between a sheep dog and a lion. The lion does not watch over those poor timid souls who cannot protect themselves, he hunts for the sake of hunting. Under the cover of darkness, he brings violence to the den of the wolf. He does so because that is his nature, he does so because to do anything else would make him something that he is not.

The sheep cares not which creature protects it as long as it stays safe, and when safety is ensured the need for those who have provided it is cast to cage. An arbitrary thank you may be a welcome exchange to the sheep dog but to the lion it is a thing held in disdain. The lion’s concern is not of the gratitude of the sheep, rather the eradication of the wolf. As long as there are sheep to consume, the wolf will attempt to navigate around the protection of the sheep dog. As long as the lion is allowed to roam free, the wolf will exist in a state of unparalleled torment. Sadly, being the minority means that the lion is somehow at the whim of the sheep. Since the sheep is simultaneously ignorant of the lion’s role and fears its overwhelming power, it will maintain its value at a diminished worth until the time when the wolf is a threat once more.

So when you cast gaze upon my tattoos and scars from behind the bars of my cage, do not approach me with gratitude for you are a sheep and I am not a sheep dog. I am merely awaiting the time when killing the wolf is once again permitted.

the devolution of consciousness

Have I ever, in a single day, had this much to say?  Have I ever, in a day, had this much rum to consume?  The Jesus turned that water to wine, I turned the wine to whiskey, the egregious import tax turned the whiskey to rum.  I would murder a hundred babies for some bacon right now.  Ohhh the return!  The return of a place of no concern.  My mind’s playground and a child without supervision.   This place, where the lunatic in me resides.  He exists in all of us this I am sure of.  The difference between my lil Charlie Manson and the rest of the twats on this planet is that I bought mine a gun and told him to run free.  To cage that animal is a recipe for disaster.  I saw the new planet of the apes, sure it was awful but you would do well to be kind to a smart monkey.  Let that fucker run, don’t collar that primate, let it out!  Feed it well and watch in childlike wonder as the feces speckles the walls of your Victorian home.  Sometimes I wonder if the only talent that God saw fit to bestow upon me was the ability to not only except but to embrace that crazy little primate in me.

...

I get fucking weird sometimes!  Like really strange.  I pace the corridors of my loft looking back and forth as though the greatest minds in history are sitting about my apartment conversing with one another.  These voices are not in my head, they are in my living room.  I hear their thoughts and think how platitudinous they are, a pretentious little cunt I truly am.  Only in my own head though.  I swirl the contents of the glass that provides the final piece to the tetrahedron.  Sappy acoustic songs and a longing for a flame so far away and a lack of television provide the rest of the algorithm.  I sit on the 15^th of 27 steps and challenge the voice of every person that has ever lived, myself included.   I ponder and record.  The words dancing on my screen like a stripper at amateur night begging for Benjamins are the exact ones that smash themselves against the walls of my cognition.  I have so many words.  They won’t stop.  My life is being narrated by some stoic poet yet I have the mind of a child, incapable of truly understanding the gravity of the words he is using to describe my life, my interactions, my observations.  I’m just here listing while these smart men banter back and forth in my living room, spilling their wine on my couch.  It’s obnoxious, they never clean up after themselves. 

white light

And like that the once dark room is alive with light.  Where have you been hiding my creative gnome?  My brilliant little bastard that dances about my mind with the grace of a jack hammer.  Perchance the rub that does you silent is the one that is known by many as happiness.  I was thinking today that she could never be in my shadow for she is the essence of my light.  One push will require two pulls as a kind word seems to be the act of petting a turtle.  The sanctity of a shell is really not much different than the brown blanket that surrounds the ice in my glass.  The fire that we start is meant to warm us yet we are the greatest bastard when attempting to control its wild flicker.  There is as much success in owning a flame as there is in owning the wild mustang that tramples the softest parts of your heart.  Sure, you may contain it for a moment but that does not make its essence yours.  Some say that to warm your cold hands before turning to the tenebrous chill of the night is the proper course of action, that the saddle is no accessory for this majestic.   Previously the tactic had been to set myself ablaze in hopes of matching the ferocity of the flame, a tactic that no doubt left me charred with regret.  I believe my only recourse is to sit close to the wild swirl of orange and blue, provide it with the fuel that it needs to not only sustain its burn but to grow and enjoy every bit of heat that it provides. 

To drink whiskey while others whine

Let us all bathe in mediocrity until the stench of our potential greatness has been washed clean and our condition no longer threatens the hearts of the weak.  Let us dim our own light so as not to blind those who are unwilling to commit to illuminating their own brilliance.  Let us dull the blade of our vernacular so that the childish center of man need not worry himself with the dangers of its incision.  After all it is not fair that some men should have to sit second to another despite being born of equal opportunity.  Drench yourself with gallons of the finest cologne so as not to send scent of your true character.  Sit high upon a thrown of the finest jewels that those in your presence will mistake their shine for that of your quality.  Let the women that we do these things for forever be blind by the faux greatness that is created in our own image.  Too great an emphasis devoted to the pursuit of self-expansion, to growth internal, analogous to that of a wild oak should be reprimanded with the incessant beat of any dubstep track.   Better to be small minded and looked upon in a big way than the antithesis for there truly is fewer fates worse than that of obscurity.  Anonymity is a disease that we all devote copious resources to cure.  In doing so we become the mirror image of those we surround ourselves with and gladly take the role as the most unique sheep In a heard of seemingly unique sheep. 

To drink whiskey while others, wine.  That is Divine.  

isolation and the conversations that occur

How can I say this but to say that I am filled with hate?  Boiling over with disdain for every other creature that walks about on its two feet.  Stark raving mad with the waste and the filth that I am no doubt the cause of.  I am the human race, my unbridled antipathy belongs to me for I am the belly of that beast.  The color, the custom is different.  The words, the worth diminished.  How easy it is to affix blame on one that you have shed all likeness of internally.  Despite having the same message their book holds a different title and in turn is of a lower faculty than the one that you would also kill for. 

The hypocrisy of the race to witch I belong bludgeons my senses.  That race is the human race and I am the guiltiest soul alive.  The indifference of all those that would abandon the cause should hang heads heavy with the weight of shame and regret, is it not the responsibility of a weak man to be strong? Or is the responsibility of the strong man to carry those who cannot carry themselves?  Those who stay strong do so in the fray.  Isolation does nothing for the condemnation of injustice, there is no refuge in hiding.  If fact there is no purpose in it since we are all humanity.  You cannot remove yourself from yourself.  Every person capable of reading and deciphering these very words is as responsible to the person at their beside to do right by them as I or any other.  To say that you hate those in humanity is to place blame upon yourself for not correcting those qualities that would lead you to such feelings. 

Magnanimity has been lost along with the virtues of altruism and understanding.  But is it really the livers fault when the lungs do not function at their whole?  Is it the responsibility of the toes to do the job of the fingers?  The fact is if the hands have become ill it would behoove the feet to take their place ergo the body will starve and they too will perish.  In this, there is no responsibility in our organism that is not ours.  Hunger, hate and half-truths are the cancer that every cell in our race must make mission to vanquish.  If not you and I both will undoubtedly fall ill to their accord.

You are the problem.  You are the solution.  I am you.  I am humanity.  Let us not venture from the knowledge of this. 

On nerves

I'm not sure if this avenue was ever a colloquial one, if it was we can call this the return, if even for a moment.  The greatest poet, after all, was not born as such.  It was a craft that had to be honed as with the carpenter and sculptor.  A life spent observing is no more effective than a life void of senses.  When we do not apply the result of our observations they are of little use to us.  To balance our days examining our surrounds with testing ourselves against those contemplation is a more true expression of what a life should be.  Our impact on the world is only one if we impose it.

She said to me that she was nervous and my hands made haste to respond before the battery on my Apple product dissipated into darkness.  Perhaps I was trying to say that the greatest things in life are the ones that create an almost overwhelming sensation of nervousness in us. There is something comforting when life becomes a song that you can sing along with but what joy is there if we never challenge our ear with the divine dissonance of a sound unheard.  There is a melody in everything.

When my message could not be sent my heart grew momentarily dark. Alas the darkness would not last.  This was the moment that I needed, this became a time for reflection on all the nerves that have recently pinged my senses to question my every step, the danger in discomfort the the unease of the unknown.  The single most terrifying moment of my life occurred just a few weeks ago.  It was a perfect storm, the culmination of so many events.  Following the purge of all but a pack of my earthly possessions I stood gasping at the airport preparing to abandon a life that was no longer working for me.  After the decision to leave all that I had built to venture south to a nation whose language I did not speak, whose citizens I did not know, I met her.  I became entangled in the one entity that it pained me to leave.  This is the game that life plays with us.  A flawless plan interrupted by a perfect possibility.
For the first time ever I stood completely unsure of the next step that I would take.  Finding my isle seat and settling in was supposed to be the release that I had waited so long for yet the electrical impulses firing from head to toe where made apparent by the physical manifestation of my trembling hands. I could leave my business, my friends, my home, my possessions, my life but could I leave her?  It was the second impossible flight in as many weeks.  I managed to survive the first, I can live through this one.
The wheels touch down and I am completely alone.  There is no one in this entire country that knows me, I know no one.  I step into the heat of the early morning in Central America with out the ability to request a cab or buy an apple.  I had hundreds of miles to go to make it to my destination.  Alone.  Completely.  Ten minutes of pacing leads me to sit upon a concrete slab and breath.  The world becomes easy in these moments.  I am alive.  I have no master, no deadline, no responsibilities.  The ever mounting uncertainty mimics the release of a volcano and as though the molten ash had been settled for generations, a soothing serenity washes over me.
My mind finds this transition as the exchange occurs, a colorful bill for a single beer from the shop by the beach leads to making long slow steps to its sandy greeting.  The repetitive beat of the music resonating from club speakers gives way to the push and crash of a rhythmic wave repeating it's caress of the shore.  For a lifetime this moment consumes.  Every salty inhale fills a chest with hope.  Just days ago there was such uncertainty, there was a consumption by nerves that the act of standing was arduous.  That moment elevated an expectation, it made every moment of unease that may present itself in the coming days as effortless as what to have for breakfast on Friday.
Was her nervousness different from that which I felt?  The feelings, I assure you, are ones that we both have yet there is not a glimmer of activity between these myelin sheaths.  For the fear of redundancy I must state that the reason for the lack of shimmer was not the result of a lack of emotion, this has in fact been all consuming of late.  There is no fear, however.  There is no question or lack of confidence, no apprehension or concern in this case.  There is no need to take a moment to sit and ponder the ramifications of all previous and potential actions.  This decision is simple for it's not a decision at all.  No warrior who commits his belly to a grenade considers it's consequence, he acts out of unwavering love, out of instinct and having previously been in situations where sacrifice was expected.  If this blast is to be the end of everything I once knew I more than welcome it.  I long for it to penetrate and consume all that it can.
To put it as simply as I can, to love her is not a choice and in turn produces no apprehension.  Breathing is not a choice, it does not warrant nervousness.

Oodles of doodles

A million eyes dance upon me
Their sweet soft serenade sings me to sleep
awake I am when alive in your arms, I am here
A breeze that pushes me to step
A scent familiar, superfluous longing
Pressed forward by the black river
Life lives in motion
To resist leaves heart and limb exhausted
Breath the stone, navigate it or rest upon it
Bathe in the twist and turn of intentional surrender
Do not care to care not, care to flow.





What walk is worth wanting
Vial venomous vituperations
Unanimous utopian euphoria
Tumultuous tyrants taunt tenebrous teens
Sediment settles
Redundant ridicule replaced by ridiculous reincarnation
Quite quiet quills
Preposterous porcupines pondering platitudinous plans
Obstreperous ossification overdone

The first

Concealed by the cover of night and tucked from sight
If open to enter, yet this eve my heart doth surrender
Too many hours spent resisting, the images of all I've been missing
Dance atop my thought and are emboldened by the last whiskey bought
The anticipation it's killing me, one more lean will set us free
Distance disappears until my pulse cheers
Rapid in step
Lips connect in jubilee when pressed to those of my dear Jenna Leigh.

Cash

I'll be your Cash if you be my Carter
You be the vest and I'll be the martyr
I'll be your gasoline just keep being my fire
You be the wheel baby, I'll be the tire
We'll go round and round this world together
I'll be the breeze, you be the feather
I'll be your urge if you be my desire
You be the art that I love to admire
You're already the lesson that makes me feel smarter
So I'll be your Cash if you'll be my Carter

A footprint in sand

Burning bridges with borrowed lighters.
Beyond bridges, a world ablaze.
Pitch black in the center of the flames
Bending time for the sake a rhyme.
living, dying, laughing, crying.


Burning bridges with borrowed lighters.
Procuring punches from professional fighters.
Running rampant with regret filled sorrow
Turing attention to today's tomorrow.


Place your stones upon my shoulders, I will carry them
Place your burdens a top those boulders let me grow weary with them.
Give me your fears and doubts and I will bury them.

The deadly breeze

That faint crackling of facia when pulled from flesh
That white connective tissue does well to adhere the skin to the meat
That is the sound my heart makes when I am made to separate from you
You are my skin.

Tito's gone

                His dusty boots stepped off of the back of the C17 cargo plane and made contact with American soil for the first time in six months.  In his left hand he clenched his M4 assault rifle, it was the only part of him that was free of the dirt of the war zone that he had just left.  He knew that it was his life line, the only thing that stood between him and the devil during so many of those midnight excursions that he had just executed.  He was a seasoned operator by this point in his carrier.  Hundreds of combat missions had left his gaze as hard and sharp as the knife he carried.  Over his right shoulder was a small pack slung with ease and filled with two bottles of water, some jerky and every letter that she had written to him during his time away from her.  The hard lines of his jaw were hidden behind a fierce beard that was needed to blend in with the indigenous population during so many ardous low profile missions.

                He pauses for a brief moment on the airfield to allow his lungs to fill with the scent of his homeland.  It is something that so many people take for granted, he thinks to himself, that simple smell of home and all that it means.  The smell of war was still fresh in his mind and this moment was the first easy one that he has had in some time.  His brothers passed by him under the cover of night on the way to the old white school bus that was picking them up at the airfield.   Each of them with their perfectly cleaned weapon and pack that looked small in comparison to their broad shoulders. There was no parade, no cheering crowd, no confetti, just a pitch black tarmac and the cloak of darkness that they had all grown so accustom to. 

                Most of the men joked and sang on the bus ride back to the compound, songs that would appall the most seasoned construction worker.  Their humor was hardened by the life style that they had volunteered for.  They were warriors and made no apologies about it.  As another verse began James quietly reached into his bag and pulled from it the stack of letters bound by an old piece of 5-50 cord.  As inconspicuously as possible he lowered his head slightly and took in another long, deliberate breath.  They still smelled like her.  Would she be there when he returned?  He hadn’t been able to reach her for the past week, even if he had he wouldn’t have been able to tell her that he was coming home.  That was the nature of his job.

                James had met Jenna in Las Vegas just over a year before.  She was a rare beauty that seemed to make the air thick and difficult to breath.  James was instantly impressed by her wit and ability to speak on everything that he found important in life.  Her playful brown hair bounced and flowed in such a way that would make any scarlet of the 1940’s jealous.  When James saw her eyes he swore that he saw a set of peals amongst the stars.  Her smile was so deliberate yet so uninhibited that it easily made the otherwise powerful man weak at the knees. She flowed with a charisma that, in all of his travels, he had never before seen. 

                The two danced carelessly and took shot after shot together, something that caused their careless dancing to increase significantly.  After several hours James went to get another round of drinks for the two of them but when he turned, to his terror, she was gone.  He hadn’t even gotten her name.  Here she was the most angelic thing he had ever laid eyes upon and she had just vanished like a modern day Cinderella.  Fate had a much different ending to their story than a brief encounter of a few dances.  They came to find each other online within hours of returning home.  The physical distance between them was of little consequence.  They messaged each other multiple times a day.  James would wait with anticipation for Jenna to respond to a funny text message.  Several times he found himself in the back room at a crowded party, deep in conversation with a girl two states away whom he had only met once.  On paper it didn’t make scenes but in his heart it was the only logical thing to do.   She quickly became his oxygen.

                Every chance they could they travelled to see one another until the time when James had to deploy again.  He needed someone to watch his home and take care of his dog while he was away.  His dog was a scruffy pound mutt that he rescued two years earlier that he had ironically named, Son.  She was tired of the grind of her job and wanted a fresh start.  In a move that was very untypical of her Jenna agreed to stay in James’ condo while he was away.  His place screamed of a military bachelor with a two thousand dollar flat screen on the wall and a hundred dollar couch.  There was nothing on the walls when she moved in and the plates may as well have been made of Styrofoam.  She didn’t mind though.  There was something about James that was so unique and magnetic that she had a childlike curiosity when it came to him.  She was drawn to him immediately and while she would never admit it she would do anything for him. 

                It was 1am when that old white bus came rumbling up to the 8 foot brown fence adorn with razor wire.  The men excitedly piled out one by one and made their way to the armory.  It was a familiar dance, turn in your weapon and night vision, get full accountability on sensitive items, and get a couple of shots from Doc and hope that the higher ups would let you go before the sun comes up.   During the process one of the snipers rolls out a keg and the men begin to sing as the cups get passed around.  James takes advantage of their distraction to move to the head of the shot line.  He has one thing on his mind and it isn’t Bud Light.  By 3am they boys are given the green light to go home.  By this point some are so drunk that they end up staying in the company area and sleeping on the concrete floor.  Not James, he ducks out to the parking lot to find his old Dodge pickup right where he left it six months ago.  As he pulls out of the gates the same old George Strait song starts playing in his CD player, it’s the one that reminds him of her, the one that he tortured himself with on the drive to the compound a half a year ago.  He had endured the most austere environments in the world but leaving her was single handedly the most difficult thing he ever had to do. 

                Every light was off as he pulled into the driveway.  His heart raced.  For the first time he allowed himself to think of all the danger and violence that he had embraced so that he could get back to her.  More than once over the past six months he was faced with a decision, take another man’s life or risk never seeing Jenna again.  It wasn’t something that he gave a second thought to in the moment.  Nothing would keep him from her.  Here he was now though, only a dozen meters from her and he realized how much he truly loved her.  She made him weak and strong all at the same time.  James quietly exits his truck and makes his way to the front door being careful to open it slowly because he knows that the hinge squeaks. Out of habit he kicks his dusty combat boots on the floor as his shaggy old dog, Son, comes to great him.  He smelled different though, he smelled clean.  As James’ eyes adjusted to the low light he noticed a few things.  There was paintings on the walls and a coffee table. 

                He flowed quietly through the house instinctually, an instinct created by hundreds of night time raids, flawlessly navigating around every warped floor board.  As he slowly pushes open the door to the bedroom he realizes that not only does Jenna sleep with a pistol, she is a very good shot.  The humor of surviving dozens of gun fights and coming home to be shot dead by the women you love is too much to not make James smile.  He takes his chances and pushes forward into the dim room.  After a time that feels like a longer than man has stood upright, he finally lays eyes on her.  The moonlight has traveled tens of thousands of miles to sneak through that window and fall perfectly on her cheek.  A trip that light would admit was well worth it.  The light grey blanket slowly rises and falls with her breath and James is paralyzed.  Nothing, in all of his travels, ever stopped him like that moment did.   He stood motionless for twenty minutes.  He felt a warm salty single tear roll down the right side of his face and into his beard.  The gaze that was once as hard and sharp as his knife melted into the sincerest look of admiration and love.  He took the final few steps to her bedside and kneeled beside her.  Gently James brushed Jenna’s brown hair behind ear touching her softly down the neck in the process.  She let out a faint moan and quietly said his name.  It was a sound that filled his heart with jubilee.  Jenna’s eyes slowly blinked open and looked up at the man who she had waited all this time for.  Even through his thick beard his smile was easy to see.  It shined through his eyes.  In the sleepy voice of a child Jenna, half asleep, asked, “James, are you home?”  As if she was dreaming.  A dream that she no doubt had every night for the last six month. 

                With his hand still on her neck he leaned closer and pressed his lips to hers.  Jenna’s  eyes opened as though she just received a shot of adrenaline when she realized that this was no dream.  Her hands moved up and found James’ body.  His ribs expanded when she touched him as though he was flung into freezing water.  He inhaled all of her in that moment.  As he did, she let out an intense moan pulling him on top of her.  While one hand pulled him into her the other moved to his head.  Her fingers flowed through his hair until she found enough to grab.  Her lower lip was clasped between his teeth with just enough pressure to not draw blood.  As his right hand clenched her hair his left hand slid down and felt her naked body beneath the sheet, trembling in ecstasy.  He traced the lines of her body as far down as his arm would allow him without parting ways with her divine lips.  No force on earth could keep their souls from each other in this moment.  She immediately found the collar of his top and removed it as though it was on fire.  Her hands danced on his unkempt chest.  There is a new scar laid a top the powerful muscle that she had come to know.  As he realizes her concern James grabs Jenna’s hand and moves it to his hip.  It doesn’t take long for that hand to find his belt.  Within a breath the belt and pants hit the lamp shade on the other side of the room.  The moonlight is all that separates the two lovers.  James’ muscular body hovers inches from Jenna’s.  With the head of his throbbing cock he can feel how wet Jenna has become in a matter of seconds.  He pauses, for what seems like an eternity, he pauses.  She can feel his heat as breathing becomes shallow.  Lips quiver in anticipation.  A mutual audible inhalation occurs as James slides every inch of himself deep into her.  Both are overcome with pleasure.  Jenna’s hands grasp his firm naked ass and pulls him into her again and again.  His left arm wraps firmly around the small of her back so that he can generate even more power.  His right arm clasps the back of her neck as his mouth moves to her neck.  In as stark of a contrast that can exist he gently and tenderly kisses the space just behind her ear as he violently thrusts himself deeper into her.   Jenna’s head tilts back as her back arches and her beautiful breasts are perfectly illuminated by the light of the moon.  Her thighs begin to tremble as she as breaths in deeply.  “Ohh my God!” she proclaims, “I’m cumming! I’m cumming!” 

                This was James’ favorite part, he genuinely enjoyed her ecstasy.  He lived for it.  Jenna’s entire body shook as her nails embedded themselves into James’ back.  He welcomed the feeling as he realized that he could no longer contain himself.  His coil becomes like an anaconda as James reaches climax.  He tries to pull out but she pulls him in deeper.  She wanted every bit of him in that moment.  As he took her ear in the clench of his teeth he cam with such force that Jenna’s nails sunk deeper into his back drawing blood.

                The adrenaline surging through his veins was tenfold what he had ever experienced in any fire fight.  No battle could compare to this.  Nothing could compare to her.  He felt himself shaking, their two bodies glistening with sweat and pleasure.  For an eternity they gazed into one another’s eyes, both realizing that there could never be a future without the other.  This was the moment that they both wished to echo throughout the remainder of eternity.  They would spend the next 24 hours exploring every inch of the other.  Not hunger or thirst or fatigue could part them.  They were completely perfect in that moment and would continue to be as long as one held the other.