You open beneath me
like earth splitting
to devour the sky.
I descend willingly,
a man worshipping nothing
but your trembling body,
the storm inside your skin.
Your nails write words
down my back,
each scratch another line
of love only our bodies
can translate.
In this fierce and tender madness,
we lose the taste of daylight,
hungering only
for the dark miracle
of flesh upon flesh.
I have lived on memory,
on ghosts of her fingertips,
on the whisper of her body
against mine—
but today, I no longer have to.
Today, I touch her.
The hunger we have fed
with longing and restraint
will spill over,
and I will press her against me
like the tide taking back the shore.
No more distance,
no more waiting,
only heat—
only now.
Not a Single Moment Lost
She gives me minutes
like they are small gifts,
like they are something
I should treasure,
and love,
I do.
There will never be an hour
where she wonders
if she is worth my time.
There will never be a night
where she sleeps
without knowing
that every second
she spends with me
is a second spent in love.
I have written a hundred lines
about love.
And still,
none of them touch the way
her voice bends the silence,
the way her hands know
how to undo me.
She is the reason I have not forgotten
how to dream,
how to want,
how to wake and see
that the world is still full
of things worth writing.
And if all I ever create
is a single line
that carries the weight of her—
then love,
that will be enough.
They say time is constant,
but love,
they have never known the ache
of being days away from you.
The sun moves slower,
the night lingers too long,
the hours fold themselves
into a weight
that settles against my chest.
I do not sleep,
I do not dream,
I only wait—
a body on pause,
a man caught between hunger
and restraint.
Come soon.
Before I forget
how to breathe without longing.
For so long,
we lived inside the absence of each other,
traced love in whispers,
made poetry out of restraint.
But love,
I have no more patience.
No more empty beds,
no more longing wrapped in quiet hands.
The fire we held back
has only grown wilder,
and now it burns with a fury
that does not know how to dim.
Come,
bring your hands to me.
Let the world disappear.
Let the past remain in ashes.
Tonight, we begin again—
without waiting,
without fear,
without pause.
I do not meet you in the cold,
where lovers speak in quiet tones,
where hands are measured,
where kisses are polite.
No, love—
I meet you where the air is thick,
where my breath knots in my throat,
where your body is a fever
I will never shake.
I do not cool in your presence,
you do not burn out in mine.
We are not opposites,
not the neat arrangement of balance.
We are the heat itself,
the wanting, the ruin,
the thing that will never stop.
She doesn’t arrive softly.
She enters the room like a slow fire,
like an old song you thought you forgot
but still hum under your breath.
My body reacts before I do—
a pulse gone reckless,
a heat rising in the hollow of my throat.
She is not just something I want.
She is something I survive.
The kind of desire that does not pass,
only deepens.
And I am already too far gone.
I have spent years
trying to hold you in words,
but you slip through my mouth
like water through cupped hands.
I have kissed you in moonlit rooms,
left fingerprints in places
only the night remembers,
but the quiet between us still aches
like an unanswered prayer.
You could give me everything—
your breath, your skin,
the slow unraveling of your name—
and still,
it would never be enough.
Some loves burn too brightly to end,
When she puts her hands on me,
she is not just touching flesh—
she is claiming something deeper she is calming something deeper.
She presses her palms against my chest,
as if she can quiet the storm beneath my ribs,
as if her fingers were made to still the ache
that lives there.
She pulls me closer,
and I go willingly.
Because in the moment before her grip tightens,
before her breath catches,
before her body melts into mine,
I already know—
I have become a place she calls home.