Time had become liquid.
Richard wasn't sure how long they'd been lying there—minutes or hours—watching the Texas sky deepen from gold to amber to the kind of orange that looked like the universe was on fire. The LSD had settled into his bones now, making everything feel significant and connected. Every blade of grass was a small miracle. Every breath Zin took beside him sounded like music. Even the air had texture, thick and velvet against his skin.
The fear from earlier had dissolved, replaced by something electric and profound. It was like he'd spent his entire life looking at the world through frosted glass, and someone had finally wiped it clean.
"I keep thinking about words," he said suddenly.
"What kind of words?" Zin turned onto her side, facing him fully. Her pupils were enormous, dark mirrors reflecting the sky.
Richard felt heat rise in his cheeks. Even with the drug loosening his inhibitions, this felt vulnerable in a different way. "I write. Poems, mostly. Have for years. Never told anyone."
"Why not?
"Because it's..." He searched for the right word. "Intimate. More intimate than anything else I do. And I figured people would think it was weird. A guy like me writing poetry."
She smiled, and it was soft and encouraging in a way that made his chest tighten. "Those sound like exactly the kind of people who should write poetry. Who else needs it more?"
The honesty in her voice, the complete absence of judgment, made something crack open inside him.
"I have thousands of them," he admitted. "Stored on my computer in folders I've never shown anyone. Some about loneliness, some about work, some about..." He trailed off.
"About what?"
"About things I've never experienced but wanted to. Intimacy. Connection. Physical stuff I've only imagined."
Zin's expression didn't change. If anything, she looked more curious. "Tell me one."
"What?"
"Tell me one of your poems. About something you've imagined."
Richard felt his heart hammering against his ribs. The LSD made everything feel hyper-real, like the moment was balancing on a knife's edge. He closed his eyes and let the words surface, fragments of rhythm and longing he'd written in his apartment at 2 AM, imagining a connection he'd never had.
"In humble adoration," he whispered.
"What?" Zin's voice was closer now, urgent.
"In humble adoration," he repeated, opening his eyes to find her face inches from his. "That's the first line."
"Tell me the rest."
The words came like they'd been waiting years to escape:
In humble adoration I bow before my love
tension inside me, her thighs beside me
I elongate my speaker. Her shivers excite me
Her moan sings love, her nectar so sweet
I can't proceed above until her feet start dancing
And she can't be still, while I stay and slip
Tasting her spill—
"Richard." Zin's voice cut through the recitation, breathless and strange. "Do you see that?"
He stopped mid-sentence, following her gaze to the bluebonnets surrounding them. Something had changed. The flowers weren't just flowers anymore—they were pulsing with intricate patterns of light he'd never noticed before, geometric designs that seemed to shift and flow like living circuit boards.
"The flowers," Zin whispered, her voice full of awe. "I can see them like a bee might. There's this new kind of light... patterns showing me exactly where to land, what they need, what they're offering."
She was right. Each bloom was radiating invitation in spectrums beyond normal vision, creating a living map of desire and connection that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. The field had become a symphony of longing, each flower a note in some cosmic composition about need and fulfillment.
Before he could fully process what he was seeing, she turned back to him, her eyes reflecting that strange new light. And then she was kissing him.
The world exploded into sensation.
Her lips were soft and urgent, tasting like wine and something indefinably her. But it wasn't just the kiss—it was the heat radiating from her body, the way she pressed against him like she needed this, needed him. The smell of her skin mixed with the sweet perfume of bluebonnets. The sound of her breathing, rapid and shallow. For the first time in his twenty-nine years, Richard felt wanted. Not tolerated, not pitied, but genuinely desired.
The certainty of it hit him like lightning. This wasn't charity or curiosity or LSD-induced impulse. She wanted him. The knowledge was overwhelming and terrifying and perfect all at once.
When they broke apart, his heart was hammering so hard the sound seemed to echo in the field around them.
"I—" he started, then stopped, his voice shaking. "That poem. I wrote it when I was just a kid. I've actually... I rewrote it since then."
Zin's hand was still on his chest, her pupils wide in the fading light. Her breathing was unsteady. "Tell me."
Richard closed his eyes, feeling the revised words come like a slow wave:
In humble adoration, I bow below,
My breath caught where her thighs begin to glow.
I speak in slow devotion, and her shivers rise—
A symphony of trembling, written in sighs.
She moans in rhythm, honey-laced and true,
And I don't move on until she dances too.
Her body sings, her pulses slip and slide—
And I stay to worship every tide.
When he opened his eyes, Zin was staring at him with something that looked like recognition. Like she'd just understood something important.
"That's not just about sex," she said quietly. "That's about... paying attention. Really seeing someone."
"Yeah," he whispered. "I think that's what I was trying to figure out. How to love someone properly. Even when I didn't have anyone to practice with."
She touched his face then, her fingers tracing his jawline. "You've been practicing your whole life, haven't you? In your poems. Learning how to worship someone before you even knew who they'd be."
The bluebonnets continued their silent pulsing around them, each flower a small star in the gathering dusk. The field breathed with them, alive and infinite, as the last of the sun painted everything in shades of gold and promise.
"I'm scared," Richard whispered.
"Good," Zin said, pulling him closer. "That means you know how much this matters."
And in that moment, surrounded by flowers that showed them exactly where to land, exactly what they needed from each other, Richard finally understood what all his words had been reaching toward. Not just desire, but devotion. Not just want, but worship. The humble adoration of really seeing someone, really knowing them, really being present for everything they were willing to share.
The bluebonnets whispered their ancient secrets, and finally, Richard was ready to listen.
