'When you look at me, what do you see?' She asked.
'I see truth beyond your years. I see youth that has no end.'  He replied calmly.
May I begin with a genuine smile and kiss? He thought.
He lent forward and began the breath of life, slowly aiming towards her half closed mouth. Her eyes closed, awaiting bliss.
'Please look at me and kiss me and only me.' He requested. 'I need you to be real because of your youth.' 'We cannot begin with a lie. You are of age but still so young.' He explained.
He was speaking of age requirements in respect to relationships with the opposite ***.
'Yes, my love.' 'This is my first in my ageless youth.' She said with a hint of melancholy.
'I am frightened.' She further explained.
Let's start again. He lent forward and began teasing her lips with his. He pressed his hot mouth over the top of her upper lip, then slowly and gently, released and continued with the lower. Attack and defense, attack and defense, until a slow, settled agreement with a warm breath and flick of her tongue. This small battle happened for fifteen minutes.
'I am moist and waiting.' She said in ******.
Let it begin, the dance, from ages before. A dance from lifetimes before us and one that will continue until there is nothing.
'Let it begin.' He stated.
Days later, she agreed to it again. Then he agreed to it again, days later.
A small hop to her step was noticed by neighbors and she smiled to herself often
Him, on the other hand, was already prepared for this.
Years later, they would reminisce of these small events gratefully  and with a fondness of their youthful experiences, at the alter.
They both smiled and agreed to private dances that they hope will produce sweat and blood.

The wind blows firmly amongst the empty homes
It flows through tunnels and carries hints of comfort on a sweaty back,
Invisible gods that see dusk blending into the dark night awaken
And begin their trek to their destinations.
In a parallel reality stars shine brightly onto a barren land.
Does a androgynous being exist?
Maybe.
Does that being even care to let us know that we are important?
Probably not.
This is all we know of our father's wars, for a lack of better words.

Do we we care enough to even question it?

There are stories of gods and goddesses that ride on tender ocean breezes that bring warmth and cold to the shorelines that
I play in,
I feed from,
and I plan to bring my children to.
The stories will grow with the salt air in their lungs and the cold, damp, packed sand under their toes. Every season will bring life to these stories, eventually gaining truth in each moment and event. The people will hear of these stories and choose whether or not to participate in them with their hearts and minds. They will grow in darkness and light as their own entity of truth. They will becomes the unbroken waterfalls of the sun and as important as the sun-drenched oceans.  
These are my words, as I see fit.