Intimacy is not a memory you rehearse
it is a risk you take
curiosity choosing to outgrow history.
A listening. A leaning in.
Two nervous systems learning each other’s weather
one breath at a time.

Make love as if the body were an instrument,
finely tuned, easily bruised,
and every touch a note that matters.
As if skin were a map you cannot conquer,
only study with reverence.
Pleasure is not a destination,
but a true north that quietly corrects you
whenever you lie.

There is craft in this.
The patience of a painter stepping back from the canvas.
The courage of a poet cutting a perfect line.
If your art never disturbs those
faithful to dullness,
never scandalises the comfortably numb,
did you really undress,
or did you simply remove your clothes.

We live in a culture afraid of arousal,
yet devoted to sedation.
It flinches from the honesty of touch
while mainlining distraction.
It blushes at the heat of a breast
but does not blink at the cold apparatus
that siphons us hollow,
screens humming, schedules tightening,
souls optimised into silence.

So of course rebellion looks erotic.
Aliveness always does.
To feel deeply in an age of anesthesia
is a radical act.
To touch without fear,
to want without apology,
to stay present while everything urges escape,
this is intimacy as art,
and art, at its core,
has always been the refusal to go numb.