Pulled in
as heat lifts smoke,

slow,
rising,

certain.

I kissed your thigh
like it had marked me,

like it was a wound
I wanted to keep open,

like I had waited hours
just to bruise myself
on your sugar.

Your hands held my head,

there to keep me
exactly where I was,

a cup
you wanted steady,

a spill
you wanted slowed.

And I drank from you,

mouth,
tongue,
breath,

the way a man drinks
when thirst is ancient
and the spring is new.

You tasted
like something sacred to danger,

and you let me.

Love had not yet chosen its name,

but my jaw ached
from trying to take all of you
with steady hands.

You said my name
low,

the kind of sound people make
when fire lands

and they can’t yet tell
whether it is rescue
or ruin.

I kept going.

When your thighs started to tremble,

when your hand slipped
from my shoulder,

when your breath staggered
like prayer gone sideways,

I kept going.

Because you were burning.

And I was too,

inside the sweetness,

inside the way brimstone
turns to fruit

when the mouth opens
wide enough.