There are ways love begins, how it grows, how it shifts from the material to the immaterial, from the tangible to the unseen.
When we are young in love—erotically young—we learn through the body. We learn through touch, through the weight and warmth of skin against skin, the raw, immediate exchange that tells us what love is, or at least what it can be. At first, every lesson is written in the language of the body, every discovery made through the senses, contact by contact, heartbeat by heartbeat.
But as love matures, something else begins to emerge. We don’t lose the physical, but we no longer rely on it solely to sustain the connection. Instead, we learn to hold both worlds at once: the physical and the energetic, the material and the immaterial.
This takes trust—a deep, abiding trust that the physical will unfold when it is truly called for, that it will arise not from need or grasping but from a place of inevitability, from the very essence of connection itself.
This trust allows us to find the place where the invisible takes shape, where what first drew us together—the initial magnetic pull—becomes something finer, something we can sense without needing to see or touch.
This is the mechanics of birth, not just of bodies, but of worlds. To establish this world, this way of being, is to build from the most subtle of connections, to make intimacy out of air, to weave a fabric that holds without ever being grasped.
It is to create a space where new life can emerge naturally, without force, without rush—when the time is right, when all conditions align.