There's an innate feeling of drift that comes with letting go.
The space we create for ourselves is, by nature, weightless until we fixate to the points in it which we made to relate to;
because love is exactly like gravity, and the points in space are planets and stars, celestial bodies just perfectly warm enough for life to explore, orientations to look up from and see the rest of it, but when we realize who it was wrought the cosm and we wake stupefied and lucid those pieces, seeming both so distant and close, unweave themselves from the fabric and like magic they disappear.
Our fists forced gently into grasplessness panic at the lack of that substance our tongues and eyes and right-side-up sensibilities wish so desperately was there from the beginning. We start floating of some unknown accordance, though undoubtedly, deeply our own, towards the next and closest brightest shining source of love.