In the fevered silence
of midnight’s retreat,

I wander the contours
of an unspoken dream,

where every glance is a spell,
every touch a revolt

against the silence
we were taught to keep.

I hunger for the nectar
pooled before the hidden gate,

like drinking
from a storm-blessed chalice.

It is wild.

Elemental.

A taste that unravels
and leaves only breath.

The scent of you
lingers in the air,

dense
and edged in salt,

a fragrant omen
curling between our bodies

like smoke rising
from sacred ruin.

Each inhale an offering.

Each exhale
a shared confession.

My hands trace you,

smoke
on a candle’s breath,

palms gliding over skin
that tightens

like silk
drawn too fast.

You arch,

spine drawn
like a bow,

a body rising in flame,

built for ruin
and reverence.

I taste you slowly.

A ritual.

A reckoning.

My mouth
at the altar of your thighs,

devout
and unhurried.

The flavor of you
flooding senses,

pulling me
into something closer to truth

than anything
ever spoken.

You open for me

like a sky
splitting with thunder.

And when I enter,

there is no softness,

only heat
and grasp,

the meeting
of need and myth,

a merging risen
from hunger’s birth,

written
in trembling flesh.

We move

with purposeful rhythm,

the motive,
each gasp,

a vow etched in sweat,

in fingered tracks,

in the echo
of our names

forced apart
by desire.

More than love.

A worship.

A raw,
unrepentant devotion

between gods
pretending flesh.

When we break,

we dissolve,

tangled in the smoke
of what we became,

marked,

remade,

and undone.

Inhibitions cease.

The yearning
of the flesh.

A sensual symphony
where passion finds its peace.

Carnal artistry
in each breath.