I dream of returning
to your sacred cove,

where tides of memory
wash against my lips.

The salt-sweet nectar
of your hidden sea

has haunted me
through drought and distance.

I am the pilgrim
who once knelt

at the altar
of your curves,

tracing devotion
with reverent tongue

against the shore
where pleasure blooms.

Your body,

a landscape
of valleys and waves,

trembled beneath
the whisper of my breath.

How I long
to navigate again

the contours
of your secret garden,

to taste the honey
of your surrender,

to worship at the temple
of your pleasure,

to feel you rise
like ocean swells

against the patient moon
of my desire.

The memory lingers
like spice on my tongue:

your essence,
your truth,
your flowering.

I am parched
for the waters of you,

for that sacred communion
where two become one.

In dreams, I wander
through the forest of your sighs,

seeking that hidden spring
where sweetness flows.

My fingers remember
the map of your terrain,

the rising hills,
the gentle slopes that lead

to that sacred grove
where mysteries unfold,

where petals open
to morning dew.

I long to drink again
from nature’s chalice,

to taste the wine
that only you can offer.

Time has not dimmed
the hunger in me

for the nectar
that flourished on my tongue.

I would be the rain
that kisses your earth,

the stream that caresses
the hidden stone.

I would be the wind
that makes your leaves dance,

the sunlight
that coaxes blossoms open.

In your garden,
I learned the language of worship,

the silent prayer
spoken with lips and breath.

Let me return
to that hallowed ground,

where creation contracts
to a single point of bliss.

Let me once more become
the faithful acolyte,

learning the scriptures
written on your skin.

For in that sweet communion
of breath and taste,

in that tender exploration
of hidden depths,

we transcended
the boundaries of flesh

and found ourselves reborn
in ancient rhythms.