The air is thick with unspent rain,
the scent of skin, a sweet, slow stain.
A silent pact the night has made,
beneath the weight of light betrayed.
Your gaze, a question, finds my own,
a territory not yet known.
A fingertip, a trace, a line,
from wrist to elbow, slow design.
A map of heat, a whispered plea,
in that first touch, we are set free.
The architecture of your back,
a landscape that my hands retrace.
A shoulder blade, a dip, a rise,
the language spoken by my sighs.
My mouth discovers, learns by rote,
the hollow of your willing throat.
The slow unveiling, breath by breath,
a quiet symphony to death
of distance, thought, and all but sense.
A yielding, fierce and so immense.
The slide of silk, the cool of sheet,
the frantic, matching of our heat.
A joining not of bone and skin,
but where the deepest selves begin.
A rhythm found, a tidal push,
a stillness in the frantic rush.
You move, and I am moved, undone,
beneath the dying of the sun.
And in the gasp, the clutch, the cry,
we watch the fractured starlight fly.
Two shudders, one, a falling crest,
upon the other’s trembling breast.
The world contracts to just this room,
this scent, this silence, this resumed
and steady beat of heart on heart,
the perfect, ruined, work of art.
