Her womb is tiring of the cycles and her bones ache in the cold. She understands that she is getting old. She longs to extend outside of her body, to demarcate pleasure to the wider spaces beyond the folds of her own skin. There are many years still left, but she reaches out for a final homeland in the shape of a man whose body is like hers: vibrant with pleasure where the taste of lust remains familiar yet exciting, even if it must be called out from cautiously earned seclusion. She wants a man with hints of grey in the hair and muscles that are beginning to relax. In him, she will search for a new kingdom in the folds of his skin, one where memories have already laid claim; one where latent tributaries rest in secret hopes of discovery. He will be her safe space. This is what happens as we become older: our bodies still long for pleasure, our wombs dry out, our hearts still seek. We pull from deeper reservoirs. The shared silences of past lives float to the surface. The taste of old stories sit on the skin like aged whiskey; strong, deep and wide. One lick of passion-scented sweat still sends shivers down the spine but deeper, deeper than those careless early days when love shifted our subterranean balances. There are other roots, other lives that leave their signatures. We cannot unknow these things. After the crest of many moons, we are unburdened in our ability to build upward, to roam under the high roofs of new skies. Such things are awarded to those who embrace the perennial seasons; we draw new maps; we find unchartered topographies in one another. We explore landscapes patiently awaiting the slow unveiling that will keep us occupied until the earth calls us back into the folds of her skin.