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Heatspell

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Your breath
finds the hollow of my neck
like a secret returning home.

The room softens
walls becoming dusk,
time loosening its grip
as your hands learn
the grammar of my skin.

Every slow touch
is a vow in a language
we only speak
with the lights low,
the world forgotten,
and desire warm
as a whispered spell
between our mouths.

 

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