Proximity is such a delicate and powerful thing. At times, all that we feel and all that we know is defined in the space between. We are conscious of the one beside us only by the gap that separates flesh from flesh and mind from mind and soul from soul. The very experience of humanity is one of opposition, of separation, of being one and not the other.
My Queen and I, in an age I thought I had forgotten, would stand apart but not so far that the remainder of the world could tell. Like universes bent upon one another in many dimensions we would hold ourselves apart by the vast gulf of millimeters. We would experience a closeness no touch can equal. She would lean to kiss, but only tease and pull away, knowing that I would follow. I would follow her scent, her breath, the tickle of her hair and the feel of her gaze. We would loose ourselves and worship one another in a fraction of an inch. We would feel one another across a cleft as narrow as a synapse as one perceives distant thunder, barely felt but shaking the very Earth. Ours was not a knowledge of touch but of electricity in Jacob's ladder, of spark and fuel.
Love is knowing difference in another as part of one's self, of bridging the galactic hair's breadth between souls without moving.
Anger is love disappointed.